


The Swords of Medhir

by ellijay



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-31 01:11:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 42,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8556877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellijay/pseuds/ellijay
Summary: Arthur jokingly called it Merlin’s first battle wound. For Morgause, it’s an opportunity for revenge. Takes place during “The Fires of Idirsholas.”





	1. Reaction

**Author's Note:**

> I’m back to writing my usual blend of angsty hurt/comfort and am also stepping back in time to “The Fires of Idirsholas” and “The Last Dragon Lord.” Both of those still rank among my favorite episodes. The idea for this story has been floating around in my brain for quite some time, and I’m finally getting around to writing it.
> 
> This could be considered somewhat AU since I think we’re meant to assume there’s only a short break of time, perhaps a few hours, between the scene where Morgause disappears with Morgana and the dinner scene where Gaius tells Merlin he did the right thing. For the purposes of this story, I’m assuming a larger gap of a few days between the two scenes.

Merlin staggered backwards as the winds stirred by Morgause’s spell whipped around the council chambers, carrying her and Morgana away to … somewhere. Could be almost anywhere, as long as it was a place intimately familiar to Morgause. That was a _very_ powerful and dangerous spell. He’d seen it the magic book Gaius had given to him, a few lines for the spell itself and several paragraphs of dire warnings about what might go wrong if the caster misspoke in the slightest or wasn’t perfectly focused. It amounted to shredding yourself into bits and flinging the resulting mass of something and everything and nothing through some kind of controlled madness to a destination you had to have pictured perfectly in your mind before you even began to utter a word, and then every last ribbon of flesh and blood and bone had to be perfectly reassembled or you’d end up maimed or dead or worse. It had given him nightmares just to read about it, but seeing Morgause cast it was a terrible beauty that left him horrified and fascinated all at once. He had no doubt she’d done everything exactly as she should. There was a tingling hum running through his entire body that he only ever experienced in the presence of magic so powerful it might burst into chaos without precise control.

The moment of terrifying awe quickly faded, though, and Merlin stumbled forward a bit, back into the reality where he’d cold-bloodedly planned and carried out an attempt to kill someone he considered to be a friend. Morgana had once put her own life on the line to help defend his home village even though she’d hardly known him at the time, and now he’d tried to snuff that life out, deliberately and with every intention of finality. It had been a lot of poison, even if it had been diluted in water and Morgana had taken only a few sips. Still, such a powerful sorceress as Morgause, and one who evidently cared deeply for Morgana, would find a way if anyone could. He had to hold onto that hope, uncertain as it was.

There was an unnatural hush in the room as papers and debris settled to the floor and knights and king alike stood unmoving in dazed confusion, but the moment was broken by the somewhat shaky voice of the king asking, “What is happening here?” When no one instantly replied, he yelled, “Someone explain what is going on, _immediately_!”

Merlin flinched at the tone of voice. It didn’t matter how many times he’d heard it, it still jangled his nerves. Fortunately, Arthur was there and far more used to dealing with his irate father than any child really should have to be. As he passed by Merlin, he paused long enough to say quietly, “Check on Guinevere and Gaius and send every knight you see along the way back here.”

“Right,” he replied with a quick nod, relieved to be given an excuse to be anywhere but here.

Arthur’s hand on his arm prevented him from immediately leaving, though. Merlin glanced over at the prince, wary of what else he might be told, or worse yet, asked. He didn’t think Arthur had seen him hand the vial of poison to Morgause, but he couldn’t be certain.

Arthur gave him a stern glare as he said, “After you’ve done that, you’re to remain in your quarters until further notice. I have questions for you.”

Merlin gulped nervously as his eyes strayed to Uther, who was half-listening to one of the knights now standing next to him. The king looked to be holding on to his patience and composure by sheer force of will. He was practically quivering with suppressed emotion, teeth gritted, arms rigid by his sides, hands fisted, eyebrows drawn together, eyes glittering dangerously. Merlin had no doubt facing Arthur’s interrogation later, whatever that would entail, would be preferable to being questioned by Uther. This time there wouldn’t even need to be an accusation of sorcery for him to find himself facing execution. _I poisoned your ward, Sire. An entire vial of hemlock. I had to be certain, you see._ He doubted he’d make it to the pyre or the chopping block, or even a cell in the dungeon. Uther would probably run him through where he stood. Possibly even kill him with his bare hands.

Merlin bowed his head in acknowledgment of Arthur’s orders and said quietly, “Yes, Sire.” Arthur seemed satisfied and let him go before striding quickly over to his father. The two immediately became engaged in a hushed but urgent conversation. Merlin had no difficulty imagining the challenge Arthur would have to keep his father in the realm of sanity and rationality. The king had, after all, been a helpless witness to Morgana being spirited away by a sorceress right in front of him.

Merlin drew a shaky breath and turned to go, but made a slight detour on his way to the door, bending to scoop up the poisoned flask of water. It wouldn’t do at all to leave it where someone might see it and decide to slake their thirst with it. A memory flashed through his mind of the look of anguished shock in Morgana’s eyes when she realized what he’d done, her strangled gasps as the poison took her breath, her flailing attempts to shove him away, the bitter ache in his heart as he gathered her up nonetheless, desperately trying to offer some measure of comfort. But what could ever make amends for what he’d done?

He felt something that might’ve been tears pricking his eyes and quickly ducked his head, his gaze falling on the blanket Morgana had been shredding to make rope. Simple, makeshift practicality. He hesitated for a moment, then reached out and gathered up the blanket. There was something he needed to do, and he needed to do it quickly while general confusion still reigned and could provide cover for his actions. He had to take a sword from one of the Knights of Medhir and hide it until the time came to use it.

He hurried to the door, head still lowered, looking up again only after he’d crossed the threshold and turned into the corridor. The agitated voices of king, prince and knights blurred together into an indistinct swirl of sound behind him. He heaved a sigh of relief, his mind clearing a bit in the relative quiet. The hall was deserted, inhabited only by the haphazardly sprawled bodies of the unstrung Knights of Medhir.

He picked his way around and over heaps of cloaks and armor, wanting to put as much distance as possible between himself and the council chambers, just in case someone followed him. The last thing he needed right now was to be caught thieving magical weapons. He didn’t think it mattered which sword he took. There hadn’t seemed to be any apparent leader, at least not among the knights. That role had obviously fallen to Morgause.

As he reached the final knight, who was sprawled on his front with sword arm outstretched but hand still clutching his weapon, the distant sound of running footsteps caught his attention. He needed to act quickly. He slung the strap of the water skin over his head and across his body, shoving the guilty weight of poison around to rest against his back. He then gave the blanket a quick shake to unwind it a bit and held onto the edge of the fabric with his right hand while he reached down with his left to take the sword from the knight’s grip.

As his fingers touched the pommel, a sharp pain unexpectedly flared up his arm, and he gave a yelp and snatched his hand back. The worst of the stinging immediately ceased, but a slight burning sensation lingered in the wound he’d gotten at Idirsholas. He had no time to wonder or worry about it now, though. The footsteps were getting closer.

He tossed the blanket over the blade and used his right hand to grip the pommel instead, this time with no adverse effects. There was a slight bit of resistance before the knight’s fingers uncurled and released the hilt, then Merlin was on his feet, clumsily wrapping the sword as best he could as one of Arthur’s men – Sir Gideon if he remembered correctly – came thundering around the corner and pulled up short at the sight of the dark-robed bodies littering the corridor.

“It’s all right,” Merlin called to him. “They’re dead. Very, very dead. Deader than dead.” Realizing he was starting to ramble, he shut his mouth deliberately, his teeth clicking together. Gideon gave him a confused look and his eyes wandered to the bundle Merlin had tucked under his arm, so he quickly added in a more controlled voice, “Prince Arthur needs you in the council chambers.”

That was apparently all Gideon needed to hear to dismiss everything in front of him. He gave a sharp nod and headed towards the room beyond without a word in response. Merlin respectfully stepped to the side of the hall to let him pass, then immediately set off in the direction of Gaius’s quarters.

He’d only gone a handful of paces, though, before he stopped and groaned in frustration. He really should check on Gwen first since Morgana’s chambers were closer. But she would want to know where her mistress was. How could he possibly break the news to her that Morgana was gone? He didn’t have the words, and even if he could find them, he didn’t want to give them to her. She would be devastated.

He left Gwen behind for the time being, although his steps were slow and faltering, a sign of reluctance to abandon the responsibility that he of all people should have to shoulder. He knew he was being a coward, but he doubted he could be any kind of comfort to her now. There was an all too familiar hollow pain in his chest. Will and Freya. His heart still hurt for both of them and now it was aching again.

He took a deep and ragged breath and bit his lower lip as he blinked rapidly against blurring vision. Later. Not now. He increased his pace. The sooner he got to his room and hid the blasted sword, the sooner he could… Do what? Scream? Break something? Bloody his knuckles against the wall? Collapse in tears? None of it useful but at least one was likely unavoidable, sooner or later. Later. It had to be later.

He took a somewhat circuitous route towards Gaius’s chambers in an attempt to escape notice as much as possible, but he still encountered rather more people than he would have liked. He dealt with them as quickly as he could, sending the knights on to the council chambers and directing a smattering of nobles back to their quarters with reassurances that matters were well in hand. They all seemed to be sufficiently confused or groggy not to question a servant telling them what to do, and thankfully none of them seemed much interested in what he was carrying. For all they knew he’d been taking some laundry to be washed before the sleeping sickness struck and had simply gotten up and carried on with his errand as soon as he woke up.

The handful of castle staff he passed seemed willing to take their cue from what he was telling the knights and nobles and went on about finding something useful to do, but a few of them did look at him a little more closely than was comfortable. Yet another reason not to have gone to Gwen first. She was more observant than most people probably realized, and her blacksmith’s daughter’s eyes would almost certainly identify what he was carrying as a sword wrapped in a blanket. He thought she would come to him privately first if she overheard or was asked anything about a missing weapon, but he didn’t want to put her in that position. What he’d already done today was cause for more hurt than Gwen could possibly ever deserve, and he didn’t want to add to it in the slightest degree.

When he finally arrived at the court physician’s chambers, Gaius wasn’t there. Merlin paused, recalling how he’d left his guardian lying on the floor, smiling with eyes wide open, but decidedly not awake and a bit damp besides. Of course Gaius must’ve roused along with everyone else and managed to get himself up. The small case he used to carry medicines and other supplies when he went to visit patients was also missing, leading Merlin to assume he’d gone in search of anyone needing care. So he’d failed in checking on both Gwen and Gaius. Arthur would probably be annoyed, especially in regards to Gwen, but if that was all the reason the prince found to be angry with him, he’d count himself lucky.

It was just as well Gaius wasn’t there at the moment. Merlin wasn’t entirely certain he wanted to tell him about the bargain he’d made with the dragon. Something else to deal with later, both the telling if he decided to do so, and the doing that ultimately couldn’t be avoided. Damn the maddening, cryptic beast for driving him to swear on his mother’s life.

He crossed the main chamber and quickly went up the stairs to his own room, then knelt and shoved the bundled sword under his bed. That much accomplished, he sat back on his heels, taking a moment to catch his breath. He had half a mind to keep the sword hidden there for a while. After all, he’d never given the dragon a specific time for his release and still hadn’t done so. Thinking back to how his latest pleas for help had initially been met with derision and outright refusal, he thought it might even be warranted to wait a little while longer before fulfilling his promise.

_Merlin…_

The voice whispered into his mind as it had done many times before, but the timing was disturbing, as if the dragon knew what he was thinking. A shiver of fear worked its way up his back, but then the frustration and self-recrimination and sheer exhaustion that had been building in him broke through the barriers that had been allowing him to hold himself together. The rush of emotion and fatigue blended into anger as he pushed himself quickly to his feet. Could he not be allowed one quiet moment without someone making demands on him?

He pressed his hands to the sides of his head and shouted, “Shut up! Leave me alone!” There was no further response, but the spark of anger had taken hold of him. He suddenly felt hot, the room close and stifling. He yanked his jacket off and threw it into a corner then stumbled down the stairs into the main room. Desperate for an outlet and not caring what it was, he grabbed the first thing he could reach, a pile of papers and a couple of books on a bench, and threw them as hard as he could. The papers flew up in the air, but the weight of the books brought them quickly down to slam into the floor. The sudden noise made him flinch, and he took a faltering step backwards, his eyes settling on the topmost book. It was his magic book. The pages and cover weren’t quite square any longer. He must’ve cracked the binding.

The rage he’d been feeling abruptly drained out of him and left a cold and empty place behind. He fell to his knees next to the book and skimmed his fingers over the cover. He thought he might be able to fix it or could ask Gaius to help him do so, but then he decided it might be better left that way. Broken, like him. Flawed and fettered and filled with things that had to be kept hidden, couldn’t be used in the light of day, were reasons for damnation in the world he lived in.

Then the tears came. He had a stray and slightly hysterical thought that at least he’d managed to keep from completing his list of possible reactions to the horrors and heartbreak of this day by not pounding his fists into anything unforgiving. His arm ached enough as it was. He clutched at the wound and pressed hard to make it hurt more. He deserved the pain. It wasn’t a battle wound at all. It was a mark of failure and cowardice.

He didn’t have the energy in him to weep for very long. Even after he’d absentmindedly swept the tears away from his face with the back of his hand, he didn’t see any particular reason to bother getting up from the floor. He shifted and settled into a sitting position, cross-legged, one hand still gripping his injured arm. There was something warm and sticky there. He must be bleeding again, but he didn’t care enough to do anything about it. He simply sat there staring at the floor, not moving even when he heard the door open.

“Merlin?” The voice was soft and cautious. Gaius. An expectant pause, then the sound of the door closing, the shuffling of feet, a hand gently laid on his shoulder. “Arthur said you were hurt. Come sit up here and let me take a look.”

It was such a simple and practical request that Merlin found himself responding without thought. He was so stiff and cramped from sitting on the floor and riding league upon league at a gallop and hauling the king’s sleeping body about the castle that he was slow to get himself up onto the bench next to Gaius’s work table. He had to let go of his injured arm to do so, but that was just as well since Gaius couldn’t very well look at it otherwise.

Gaius’s steady hands unknotted the strip of torn fabric binding the wound, and then he peered at the injury through the rent in the sleeve for a moment before he sat back and said, “I’ll need you to take your shirt off so I can get a better look.”

Merlin gave a slight nod and fumbled with the loop and buckle of his belt for a moment before he managed to undo them. He pulled the long strip of leather from around his waist and absently draped it over the bench beside him, but when he raised his arms to pull his shirt over his head, he gasped in pain and had to quickly lower his arms again. Gaius had to help him with that part of the task, efficiently pulling the sleeve from the uninjured arm first, then lifting the shirt over his head and down and off the hurt arm, all without much jostling or additional discomfort. But then Gaius prodded the wound with a finger and Merlin hissed at the flare of pain set off by the pressure. He looked over and down and finally got a good look at the injury. It was a shallow cut but much longer than he’d expected, beginning in the middle of his upper arm and running nearly to his elbow.

Gaius slid his hands underneath to cradle the arm while he peered and squinted at it from several angles. It seemed to Merlin to be a ridiculous amount of scrutiny for something relatively minor, but Gaius was obviously concerned for some reason. Merlin was about to ask him what he could possibly be looking for when the physician finally pulled back and sat up straight. He carefully bent the injured arm at the elbow and guided the hand down to rest in Merlin’s lap.

“No sign of infection or other ill effects,” Gaius said with a slight smile as he calmly looked at Merlin. For some reason Merlin felt his guardian’s composure was somewhat strained, but he supposed he might very well be projecting his own unsettled emotions. “Not very deep either,” Gaius went on, “which is good, but the length of it concerns me. Some stitches, I think, just to be sure.”

“Stitches?” Merlin asked in confusion. “It’s just a scratch.” He wasn’t quite sure why Arthur had even mentioned it to Gaius.

“A scratch inflicted by an enchanted blade,” Gaius said sternly, his eyebrows lopsidedly quirking upwards as usually happened when he was contemplating Merlin’s intelligence or lack thereof.

“How can you tell?” he asked hesitantly as he slid his right hand under the opposite elbow to give his injured arm some support. He was suddenly acutely aware of the feeling of prickling heat that seemed to have settled in the wound. “I don’t even remember getting it.”

“I know a wound made by a sharpened edge when I see it, so unless Arthur or one of his men made a lunge at you at Idirsholas, I think it’s safe to say this came from one of the Knights of Medhir.”

Merlin’s eyes flicked down to look at the wound again. Now he thought about it, the clean slice through his jacket and shirt should have told him he’d been grazed by a blade and not some kind of debris in the ruins or the rough edges of falling stone. Arthur must’ve known immediately when he’d seen it, but it hadn’t exactly been a high priority at the time, no matter the nature of the injury.

The pain when he’d touched the sword in the corridor outside the council chambers was further evidence of the wound’s origin, but he’d dismissed it in light of the more urgent matter of hiding the pilfered weapon before he was discovered toting it about the castle. Now he wondered if the sword he’d stolen was the same as the one that had wounded him or if it even mattered. The knights had shared their original enslavement, had been called forth together by Morgause’s spell, had been bound to her will. A chill feathered unexpectedly across his chest and he hunched his shoulders in reaction.

Gaius’s hand instantly went to Merlin’s forehead and stayed there for a long moment. The steady contact was comforting. He briefly thought about telling Gaius about his reaction to the sword, but then he decided against it. It was probably nothing to be overly concerned about and the admission might lead to questions he wasn’t sure he wanted to answer right now, such as why he was touching one of the swords at all.

“You don’t have a fever,” Gaius said as he moved his hand from Merlin’s forehead to under his chin, applying a slight upwards pressure that Merlin responded to automatically, raising his head to allow Gaius to peer intently into his eyes.

He blinked a few times as he forced himself to hold Gaius’s gaze. He knew the physician was simply assessing his condition, but it felt like something more. He couldn’t keep himself from looking away after a moment, turning his head to the side as Gaius withdrew his hand. He shuffled one foot against the floor as he muttered, “I’m just a bit cold.” It was true enough. He wasn’t exactly accustomed to sitting around without a shirt.

Gaius didn’t make any further comment, and Merlin kept his eyes averted, shifting his gaze downwards to fix on the toe of his boot. He heard Gaius get up, and a moment later a blanket was being draped over his right shoulder, pulled around his back and under his wounded arm. Merlin used the fingers of his right hand to hold onto the edges of the blanket and keep it securely wrapped around him. The wool was thick and coarse and felt odd against his bare skin, but at least it helped to keep the warmth of his body where it belonged.

He sighed and closed his eyes as he realized he was tired enough to fall asleep right then, but the ache in his arm prevented him from drifting off entirely. He felt Gaius gently wiping the skin around the wound with a damp cloth that smelled of an earthy mixture of herbs with a trace of vinegar. The aroma was familiar to him, a sort of mild disinfectant Gaius used to cleanse the area around wounds. That was followed by some sort of thick, greasy substance smeared directly over the wound itself.

The pain dwindled significantly after that, probably because of something in the ointment, but Merlin was still aware of the prick of the needle and the pull of the thread through his skin. The sensation nauseated him, forcing him to concentrate on taking slow, deep breaths until the roiling in his stomach settled. It was probably a good thing he hadn’t had much to eat recently. There simply hadn’t been time.

When he felt a bandage being wrapped around his arm, he opened his eyes again and caught a glimpse of the stitches before the wound disappeared beneath several wide layers of firmly wrapped linen. He knew sewing a wound closed was a sound medical practice, but he couldn’t help but think that it often made injuries appear worse than they were. Between the stitching and the amount of bandaging, he was hard pressed to think of any difference between the treatment of this particular wound and one that had gone to the bone, apart from treatment for infection. At least he’d avoided having the cut flushed out with the foul-smelling liquid Gaius reserved for more serious injuries.

“That should take care of it for now,” Gaius said as he firmly tied off the ends of the bandage, “but I’ll want to have another look at it in the morning.”

Merlin nodded. He supposed he should get up now but was finding it difficult to gather the energy to do so. The hesitation turned out to be unfortunate since Arthur arrived at that moment, cutting off any opportunity for delaying the inevitable questions. Best to get this over with, he supposed, whatever might happen or be revealed, but he couldn’t help but feel trapped. There would certainly be consequences, if not now, then soon enough.


	2. Evasion

Arthur entered Gaius’s chambers with surprising calm, closing the door quietly behind him. Merlin had imagined barging and slamming and yelling, but the prince simply stood there a moment, eyes fixed on the floor as he drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Perhaps he’d already had his fill of drama with his father. Or more likely he was simply fighting against fatigue. He looked every bit as weary and travel-worn as Merlin felt. He hadn’t even bothered to remove any of his armor.

“Sire?” Gaius asked tentatively. “Are you well?”

Arthur looked up, a confused expression on his face, but it quickly cleared as he shook his head. “Well enough, considering the circumstances,” he replied, his voice tinged with bitterness. He looked around distractedly, then walked across the room, pausing to grab the back of a stray chair and drag it along with him. He faced the chair towards Merlin and Gaius and sat down, slouching a bit, his hands resting with palms down on the tops of his thighs like an afterthought.

“How’s the arm?” he asked with a quick glance and jerk of his head in Merlin’s general direction.

Merlin wasn’t sure to whom the question was addressed since Arthur wasn’t looking directly at either of them, but it was Gaius who answered. “It should mend well enough, Sire,” he said but didn’t elaborate any further. Merlin supposed he didn’t want to add any more magical fuel to the fire. Sleeping spells and undead knights and abduction by sorcery were quite enough.

“That’s good,” Arthur said absently, then leaned forwards and laced his fingers together. He was silent for a moment, his eyes cast downward. Merlin took the opportunity to shrug the blanket further up over his shoulders and pull his injured arm gingerly underneath it. He wondered if he should wait for Arthur to speak or take the initiative himself, but he had no idea what might be appropriate or where he should even begin. There was much to be said and even more that should be left unsaid. He decided it might be wise to let Arthur lead the conversation.

Just as Merlin was starting to shift uncomfortably, anticipation and doubt weighing upon him, Arthur looked up and spoke in an oddly subdued voice. “You lied to me about Gaius having found a cure, didn’t you?” He fixed Merlin with an intense gaze, his eyes slightly narrowed, as if daring his servant to deny it.

Merlin frowned and leaned away from Arthur, his back pressing almost uncomfortably against the edge of the table behind him. He hadn’t been expecting this particular question. He wasn’t quite sure why he was being asked at all, really. He knew he’d done a particularly poor job of lying. Arthur had probably only accepted the explanation at the time due to lack of any other leads to pursue, or perhaps his judgment had been clouded by the urgency of the situation. He’d obviously had time to reevaluate since then. There was really no point in adding another falsehood on top of such a shaky foundation, so Merlin replied with a simple, “Yes.”

He expected a reprimand at the very least for having deceived Arthur, but all the prince did was nod slightly before he asked, “Why?” His voice was bewilderingly matter-of-fact. Maybe he simply didn’t have the energy for anger or accusation at the moment.

Merlin blinked a few times, still thoroughly confused as to why Arthur was pursuing this line of questioning before any other. It all seemed so strange and backwards and made him feel as though he’d been cast adrift into a world that made very little sense. Part of the muddled feeling was probably down to his own exhaustion. There was an insidiously creeping sense of lassitude in him, as if the sleeping spell were still trying to pull him under. Maybe it was his imagination, the weight of guilt pressing down on him, or perhaps the spell actually hadn’t completely let go of him because he’d managed not to succumb to it. But then why wasn’t Arthur being similarly affected? Or maybe he was, and was simply better at hiding it, or coping with it or... something...

“Merlin?” Arthur’s voice sounded oddly concerned.

He flinched a bit at the sound of his name, then realized his eyes had drifted to the side without his having meant for them to do so. When he looked back, he had to blink a few times to bring Arthur’s face back into focus. “Sorry,” he mumbled, clearing his throat and working to pull his thoughts back to the previous question. Whatever it had been…

“Are you sure he’s all right?” Arthur asked as he shifted his gaze to Gaius.

“I’m fine,” Merlin snapped impatiently before Gaius even had a chance to reply. The response was automatic. He hated being talked about as if he weren’t able to speak for himself. He squeezed his eyes shut and gave his head a brief shake to try and clear the fog that seemed intent on insinuating itself into his brain.

“It might be the salve I put on the wound,” Gaius commented. “It has a pain reliever in it that can have a soporific effect.”

“You might’ve warned me about that,” Merlin muttered petulantly as he experimentally reopened his eyes and found his vision holding clear again. He was supremely frustrated by his thoughts being garbled just when he needed them to be as organized as possible. He needed to buy himself a bit of time to get a better hold on some semblance of mental clarity, so he resorted to one of his customary diversion tactics – taunting Arthur. “That means it makes you sleepy. Soporific,” he said with a bit of a smirk, although he had to force the expression onto his face. He was so ridiculously tired that moving anything seemed to take an absurd amount of effort.

Arthur sat back, crossed his arms over his chest, and raised an eyebrow. “I _know_ what it means, Merlin, and even if I didn’t, I think I would’ve been able to figure it out from looking at you. You’re about to fall off the bench.”

“That’s very funny,” he replied sarcastically, giving Arthur what he hoped was a caustic look. “I think I can manage to sit on a bench just fine, thank you.”

“No, really,” Arthur said with a trace of amusement. “You’re falling off the bench.”

“What?” Merlin asked, staring in bewilderment at Arthur, who only glanced down and back up again, then waited expectantly. Merlin followed suit and looked down, finding that he actually was perched rather precariously on the edge of the seat and was slowly sliding even further off. “Oh!” he gasped as he quickly pulled his feet in and used them to push himself into a more secure position. Then he glanced back up, chagrin niggling at him.

Arthur shook his head slowly back and forth, the expression on his face clearly stating “idiot” in a way that was all too familiar to Merlin. Unfortunately, that was exactly how he felt at the moment, stupidity brought on by exhaustion keeping a firm hold on him. He had no idea how he was going to get through this interrogation without ending up muttering incoherently and possibly falling asleep right where he sat.

“Merlin.” That was Gaius’s voice. He looked over blearily and saw that the physician was holding a vial in his hand. Where he’d produced it from, Merlin had no idea. It might’ve been on the table behind them or Gaius might’ve gotten up to retrieve it. Yet another example of the extent to which his thoughts and senses were jumbled. He hadn’t even noticed what Gaius was doing, despite their being sat together on the same bench.

Gaius pulled the stopper from the vial and said, “Inhale the vapors through your nose, but don’t breathe too deeply. It’s very potent.”

Merlin gave him a suspicious look – he just knew that whatever was in the vial was going to smell ten kinds of awful – but he nodded and took a small sniff as Gaius waved it under his nose. The effect was instant and shockingly intense. The odor was every bit as repugnant as he expected, sharp and acidic, somewhat like vinegar but really more akin to other things he didn’t want to consider. Worse than the smell, though, was the fact that the fumes felt like they were burning the inside of his nose, searing all the way to the back of his throat and bringing tears to his eyes. He jerked his head away and coughed harshly, and his hand, still fisted in the blanket, went up automatically to cover the lower half of his face, defending him against further assault.

“What _is_ that stuff?” he muttered between gasping breaths. Gaius had pulled the vial away and put the stopper back in, but Merlin kept his mouth and nose covered with the blanket in case any of the vapors were still lingering. His breathing had sped up considerably and he did _not_ want to subject himself to any more of the disgusting concoction.

“Salt of hartshorn,” Gaius replied as he turned slightly to put the vial on the table at the opposite end from Merlin. “It stimulates respiration and increases alertness. I tried using it to alleviate the symptoms of the sleeping sickness, but it hardly had any effect at all.”

“Which brings us back to my question,” Arthur interrupted. Merlin glanced over at him and winced at the grim intensity on his face. “That is, if you think you’re coherent enough now to give me an answer that isn’t utter nonsense.” He didn’t pause for a response, though, which didn’t surprise Merlin in the slightest since he’d already identified the statement as pure sarcasm. “Why did you lie to me about Gaius having found a cure?”

Despite Arthur’s obviously increasing impatience, Merlin still took a moment to tilt his head down and wipe his eyes on the blanket. The stinging caused by the hartshorn vapors had abated somewhat, as had the burning sensation in his nose and throat, but his breathing was still uncomfortably rapid, and his heart had likewise sped up. A small price to pay, he supposed, to be able to think clearly, which he now seemed to be able to do fairly well. He’d assumed, however, that he’d only be questioned on the facts of what had happened. He wasn’t quite prepared to explain the motivations for his actions. He supposed it was simple enough in regards to the nonexistent cure. Morgana had been so upset and confused and frightened, and Arthur had been pressing her with repeated questions that she couldn’t answer. The urge to defend her had been so great that the words had started tumbling out of his mouth before he’d had the slightest idea of what he was going to say. Ironic considering how the situation was ultimately resolved, with specific knowledge, deliberation and the antithesis of protection.

“Merlin,” Arthur said with a sigh that held a mixture of frustration and weariness. “I know you’re upset about what happened to Morgana. We all are. But I need you to answer my questions. I need to understand.”

Merlin took a deep breath and lowered the blanket from his face, clutching it tightly to his chest once again. Then he nodded his head sharply, resolving to give Arthur the truth he wanted, at least to the extent he could offer without incriminating himself so deeply and utterly that he might as well confess to being a sorcerer as well as a murderer and thereby seal his fate. He told himself firmly that nothing would be solved by laying himself so bare to judgment, but there was a part of him that wanted to be held accountable and craved the shedding of secrets. Now was not the time, though. He wondered if that day would ever come and if he’d be alive afterwards to see the dawn of another.

“Morgana was frightened, and you wouldn’t let her be,” he said, a bit of anger seeping into his voice as he looked directly at Arthur. He knew he should probably try to stay as calm as possible, but he didn’t think he could manage to entirely suppress his emotions at the moment. At least they were honest and helped to burn more of the haze away from his thoughts. “You kept insisting she must know the reason she wasn’t affected by the sleeping sickness, but she was just as confused as we were. I had to say something or you would’ve gone on hounding her.”

He thought he’d be rebuked now, for the tone of his voice and his harsh words at the very least, if not for the thinly veiled accusation that Arthur had been cruel towards Morgana. The prince merely tilted his head to the side, though, his eyebrows drawing together and a slight frown on his face. After a moment of consideration, he nodded, then said slowly and deliberately, “So you were lying to protect her.” It wasn’t a question but a conclusion, and he seemed to be satisfied with it.

“Yes, I was,” Merlin replied softly. He supposed he should’ve realized he wouldn’t be censured for defending Morgana, no matter the circumstances or method. Despite the frequently antagonistic relationship Arthur had with her, they obviously cared for one another. Arthur respected her and would often listen to her opinions and be spurred to action by her words, even against his father’s will. And now all of that was gone, fractured by Merlin and swept away by Morgause.

At least he’d apparently settled whatever concern or doubt had driven Arthur to question an obvious lie before addressing any other issues. Now, though, the prince shifted his line of inquiry to where Merlin had expected it to be from the start. He’d almost certainly have to veer away from the truth now, and he had sincere doubts he’d be able to do so without the lies being blatant or the omissions glaring.

“I need to know what happened in the council chambers after I left,” Arthur said as he once again leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands raised with fingers knitted together. “You were the only one there who was awake and hasn’t since disappeared. You must have seen or heard something that would explain why Morgause broke the enchantments and took Morgana instead of the king.”

Merlin bowed his head, wishing for a moment that he _had_ disappeared, at least temporarily. It would’ve given him some time to figure out what he could, should and would tell Arthur. Too late for that. The only options that currently came to mind were giving a somewhat edited recounting, which was a risky tactic considering his abysmal skills at improvising explanations, or pleading ignorance, which was even less likely to succeed. Or was it? His breath caught as he realized there actually was a plausible excuse that would allow him to end this discussion now.

“But I _wasn’t_ awake. I fell asleep,” he said, trying to put a bit of embarrassment into his voice. It was such a perfect and simple solution to his predicament that he felt a bit lightheaded at the intense relief it brought. Now maybe the questions would end. He wouldn’t have to edge his way so dangerously and tentatively around the turbulent truth.

“Merlin!” There was the rebuke, finally, close to a shout and brimming with exasperation. It was clear and clean, quick and precise, like the slice of a blade. It was exactly what Merlin needed, a sort of perverse benediction.

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it,” he said quietly, an unexpected rasp in his voice. He truly was sorry, for so many reasons, regretful and pitiful both. He shrugged with one shoulder, the one that didn’t hurt, but didn’t dare look up for fear that Arthur would be alert enough even in the midst of his frustration to detect such a bald lie. He felt he should probably provide a bit more detail to solidify the claim, so he added in a subdued voice, “After I barred the door behind you, Morgana started to shred the blanket so I could make some rope. The next thing I remember is waking up and finding Morgause there, holding Morgana in her arms. I stood up, and you came running into the room right after that.”

Arthur sighed heavily, and Merlin hazarded a glance upwards. The prince was now slumped in his chair and pinching the bridge of his nose. “She must’ve finally succumbed to the sleeping sickness,” he muttered, then he looked at Merlin with a frown. “You were trying to stop Morgause, weren’t you?”

“Why would you say that?” Merlin asked, slightly panicked that his excuse wasn’t going to hold up under further scrutiny, but also a bit confused at how Arthur would have come to such a conclusion. He hadn’t been trying to stop Morgause at all. He’d actually been wanting her to leave as quickly as possible, before the poison finished its work, before there was no hope left to salvage, before anyone awoke to bear witness to what he’d done.

“You had your hand held out towards her,” Arthur said slowly, as if he were explaining the obvious to an exceptionally simple person.

“Oh.” Merlin glanced down. So Arthur _had_ seen that. He wasn’t quite sure how to explain or if he should even try. Maybe he should just say he didn’t know what he was doing. Arthur would certainly believe that.

Arthur had apparently come to a similar conclusion on his own, though. “Honestly, Merlin, you truly are an idiot, and a reckless one at that,” he said, his tone mostly scolding, but there was a hint of fondness there, maybe even reluctant approval. “What you expected to do against a sorceress with nothing but your bare hands, I have no idea. I couldn’t even best her with a sword, and against magic… It was foolish of you even to try.”

Merlin looked up, not bothering to hide all the pain and regret he was feeling, and not caring how Arthur chose to interpret whatever he saw. Despite what others might think, he knew he wasn’t a fool, nor did he lack intelligence. He should have found another way. “I just wish there was something else I could have done,” he said quietly. “I wanted to save her, but I couldn’t.” That was horribly, piercingly true, the kind of honesty that burned in its intensity.

“Well, at least you weren’t cowering in the corner being useless,” Arthur said with a lopsided grin. “There might be hope for you yet.” Either he hadn’t noticed how deeply troubled Merlin was, or he’d dismissed it as irrelevant or too uncomfortable to acknowledge. Probably the latter. Emotions were foes that Arthur rarely chose to engage.

“Yes, Sire,” Merlin mumbled, then ducked his head, feigning deference. At any other time he probably would have come up with a sarcastic retort, but right now, it seemed wise to let the opportunity pass. He was feeling rather discombobulated, awash in a confusing mixture of guilt and relief, and didn’t trust himself to say anything sensible.

He heard the sound of something scraping against stone and looked up to find that Arthur had pushed back his chair and stood up. “My father’s ordered a search of the castle,” he said with the commanding inflection that went with the role of Crown Prince of Camelot, then it altered to the subtly gentler and more human voice of Arthur Pendragon. “I don’t think it’s likely we’ll find any sign of Morgana or Morgause, but we have to try. And then there are the bodies of the Knights of Medhir to secure, as well as their weapons.” His face relaxed a bit more and now a hint of teasing sparked in his eyes. This was plain and simple Arthur, friend and sometime prat. “You can be excused from that, Merlin. Although I normally wouldn’t hesitate to give you extra work to keep you out of trouble and build your character, you look like hell, and it would be very tiresome to have to deal with you keeling over in the middle of the castle.”

Merlin blinked in surprise. He wanted nothing more at the moment than to crawl into bed and escape from the world and everything in it for just a little while, but he hadn’t been expecting to be granted his wish without even asking for it. “Thank you, Sire,” he said, then added with a faint smile, grasping at the tatters of normalcy, “For excusing me from the search, that is. Not for telling me I look like hell.”

“Just being honest, Merlin,” Arthur replied. Merlin felt a stab of guilt at the comment – he certainly hadn’t been honest with the prince – but Arthur had more or less dismissed him by turning towards Gaius. “The swords, Gaius. Obviously the knights themselves were enchanted, but what about their swords?”

“I’d say it’s very likely the swords are magical in nature,” he replied with his usual calm demeanor. Merlin was a bit taken aback at the way he phrased his response. He’d seemed certain beyond a doubt that the swords were enchanted when he’d been treating Merlin’s wound. Then again, Gaius frequently tended to couch his explanations of magical matters in terms of supposition. Probably a long-standing defense mechanism. “I would recommend they be handled with care.”

“Of course,” Arthur replied with a nod, flicking a concerned glance in Merlin’s direction. Merlin wasn’t sure what the odd look meant at first, then he realized Arthur must be thinking of the wound on his arm. The attention, however brief, irked him.

“It’s just a scratch, Arthur,” he said brusquely. “I’m hardly going to die from it.”

Arthur looked a bit startled. Evidently he hadn’t expected his servant to be so perceptive. His expression quickly altered, though, becoming shrewd and ever so slightly mocking, a blend that was all too familiar to Merlin. “Oh, if there was a way to die from a scratch, I’m sure you’d find it, Merlin,” he drawled. Merlin glared at him, but he’d already returned his attention to Gaius. “My father has ordered the swords to be melted down if it can be managed.”

Merlin bit the inside of his lower lip. It was a good thing he’d already snagged one of the swords or he’d have a very angry dragon to deal with. He didn’t want to find out what might happen if he wasn’t able to keep his promise. Actually, he was more concerned about what _would_ happen when he released the dragon, but that was a worry for another day. The effect of the salt of hartshorn seemed to be wearing off, and weariness was creeping over him once again. If he tried to sneak down to the cavern below the citadel before he’d gotten some sleep, he’d probably stumble and fall down the stairway. There were a lot of stairs. He’d probably end up breaking something. Maybe several somethings.

“Magical weapons are notoriously difficult to destroy, Sire,” Gaius commented, a hint of caution in his voice.

“The attempt must still be made,” Arthur replied firmly, crown prince again. “The king was adamant. He wants the bodies of the knights burned as well.”

“I believe that may be wise,” Gaius said quietly but earnestly. “They were raised from the dead once. It might be possible to do so again. I think it’s time they were set free.”

Arthur gave him a vaguely puzzled look, as if it hadn’t occurred to him to consider the knights to be anything but enemies. “I’ll see to it myself,” he said slowly, his eyebrows drawn together, then his expression quickly cleared. Decision made, no need to deliberate on reasons or motives any further. Merlin almost snorted at how easy it had become for him to read the prince’s thought processes, but in this case, the subject matter didn’t deserve to be taken at all lightly. He sobered quickly.

Arthur gave a brief, final nod to both Gaius and Merlin, then turned to leave, but Merlin called after him, “Will you need me to attend you later, Sire?” He sincerely hoped the answer was no – his exhaustion and the effects of Gaius’s pain-relieving ointment were reasserting themselves with a vengeance now – but he felt he had to ask anyway. He’d rather know ahead of time and not have to deal with Arthur slamming back in here later and demanding to know why a bath hadn’t been drawn for him and where the hell his dinner was.

Arthur turned back and shook his head. “No, Merlin. Not interested in dealing with you keeling over, remember?”

“Oh. Right.” Merlin nodded, then frowned and stared, feeling like there was something else he was supposed to say or do but completely unable to grasp what it might be. His relief at being excused from his duties for the evening had apparently translated into permission for the addling fog to lower over his thoughts once again.

Arthur rolled his eyes and let out a long, gusting breath. “Get some rest, Merlin. I’ll expect you to be over any urges to abruptly make your acquaintance with the floor by tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, Sire,” Merlin muttered, barely stifling the yawn that tried to interject itself. “Although I should point out that I’m already well acquainted with the floor from having to scrub it.”

Arthur huffed and gave a wry grin before turning to leave. He’d gone only a few steps, though, when he paused and looked back over his shoulder. “Did you have a chance to check on Gwen?” he asked, his voice gentle in a way that it only was when speaking of her.

Merlin suppressed a groan. He should have forced himself to go to her. She deserved to be told about Morgana’s fate by a friend and not discover the truth through servant’s gossip. “No, Sire. I’m sorry. I can go now if you like.” It was only a half-hearted offer, but he felt he had to make it.

“No, it’s all right,” Arthur said quietly. “I’ll speak to her.”

Merlin felt a ridiculous amount of gratitude at being pardoned from that particular task. He’d probably end up standing there awkwardly, trying to figure out what to say or blurting out things that weren’t at all comforting, maybe even the truth. “Thank you, Sire.”

Arthur gave a jerky nod and finally left, closing the door slowly behind him, the latch clicking quietly.

Merlin kept his eyes on the door, not wanting to look at Gaius for fear of inciting another round of questions. They’d probably be much more insightful and pointed given Gaius’s knowledge of his magic and disturbing ability to detect falsehood. Merlin simply didn’t have enough energy left in him to explain or defend or dissemble any further, and his composure was so broadly fissured that it just might shatter if subjected to more pressure.

Gaius did have one question, but fortunately, it was a mundane and practical request.  “Are you hungry at all?”

Merlin swallowed and shook his head. Even if his stomach were several days empty and gnawing holes into itself he didn’t think he could bring himself to eat anything right now.

“Off you go to bed, then,” Gaius said as he put his hand flat on Merlin’s shoulder blade and gave him a nudge.

Merlin nodded absently but didn’t move immediately. He needed a moment to collect what few reserves of strength he had left. His eyes drifted over to the window and he absently muttered, “The sun’s not even down yet.” He wasn’t sure why he was making the comment. He felt as if he could fall asleep in the middle of a busy marketplace at midday.

“That’s what shutters are for,” Gaius replied with a hint of humor, then he added in a quieter voice, “You can take the blanket if you like. It’s a spare.”

“No. It’s all right. I don’t need it.” The chill he’d felt earlier was gone, replaced by the deep warmth of approaching sleep. He got up slowly and let the blanket fall back down onto the bench, then quickly shifted his right hand to his injured arm, pulling the limb securely against his chest. He took a couple of steps but then stopped as his attention was caught by his damaged spell book, still lying on the floor amidst the other books and papers he had thrown across the room earlier. He should probably pick it up and put it away, but he was strangely loath to even touch the thing at the moment. Magic had not been his ally today.

“I’ll take care of that,” Gaius said gently. He might’ve been referring to cleaning up the mess of books and papers, hiding the spell book, mending the broken binding, or something else altogether. Merlin wasn’t quite sure, and he found he didn’t particularly care. None of it seemed especially important at the moment. Even the dragon seemed like a faraway concern and hopefully would remain silent for a while. Merlin didn’t think he’d be able to keep himself from screaming if there were any more whispers in his mind just now.

He turned away without another word and shuffled towards his room. His body felt slow and heavy and clumsy as he walked, and he staggered a bit going up the stairs, but managed to catch his balance before he fell. Once in his room he closed the door behind him and leaned against it for a handful of seconds, then walked over to the bed, tugged the blanket aside and sat down. He carefully shifted his injured arm to the side so he could lean over to pull his boots off, then tossed them over towards the wall so he wouldn’t trip over them later. He’d managed to tangle himself up in various things he’d left on the floor by his bed more times that he cared to recall, and even had a scar just inside the hairline over his forehead from the time he’d cracked his head against the corner of his desk on the way down.

He thought about putting his sleep shirt on but decided he didn’t want to expend the energy to get up and walk back to the door to retrieve it from its peg. He supposed he could summon it to him with magic, but he’d still have to put it on by conventional means and didn’t feel like making the effort, especially with one of his arms hindered by fresh stitches and bandages. The window, though... He stared at it intently for a moment and felt the tingle and warmth of magic in his eyes as the shutter quickly swung away from the wall and around to block the light.

A bit of nausea and dizziness swept through him and left a dull headache behind. That was nearly always the result when he used his magic when he was exhausted, especially if it was the instinctive sort that he’d always had. He might not need an actual spell for it, but it required concentration to be properly controlled, and a weary mind forced to focus would inevitably protest.

He rubbed at his temple as he laid down, but the pain in his head was a minor distraction, quickly dismissed. He tucked his feet under the blanket and pulled it up over his bare chest, then settled his injured arm at his side, slightly bent at the elbow with the hand resting against his thigh. There was still a prickling sensation in the wound itself, but it was a vague and distant sort of thing. He closed his eyes and was almost instantly asleep.


	3. Scars

Merlin slept so soundly and so deeply that when a voice calling his name awoke him, he found it took quite a bit of effort to open his eyes. He finally managed, but his thoughts seemed to be equally uncooperative. He noticed several things that were odd but couldn’t quite grasp an immediate explanation for them. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, his arm hurt and judging from the light shining around the edges of the shutter covering the window, it was well past dawn. Also, Gaius was standing by his bed with a patient and expectant expression on his face.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Merlin muttered, the lingering haziness of sleep pitching his voice lower than usual.

“Just waiting for your brain to catch up with reality,” Gaius replied. The corner of his mouth quirked upwards.

Unfortunately, Merlin’s mind was now doing a quite adequate job of reassembling the events of the previous day. He had the urge to pull the blanket up over his head and try to wish it all away, but that was ridiculous and childish and selfish. At least he’d had a good, and apparently _long_ , night’s sleep and now might possibly be able to face the day without feeling as if the earth was going to open up and swallow him whole. Not that he wouldn’t deserve it. And possibly welcome it.

“Reality’s not such a pleasant thing today,” he said in a rough voice.

“No, it’s not,” Gaius replied, the half-smile fading from his face and the light in his eyes dimming. Of course he’d be missing Morgana as well. He’d known her for a long time, cared for and protected her, both from Uther and from herself. “Still, it’s what we have, and we shouldn’t squander it,” he added with forced cheer.

Merlin nodded slightly because he knew Gaius was right. Wallowing in sorrow and regrets never solved anything and could easily progress to hindering nigh on everything. He had duties to attend to and a destiny to serve, no matter what sacrifices it demanded. “I know,” he said, so many layers underpinning those two simple words, to a depth that was sometimes difficult to fathom, much less embrace. He drew in a long breath and blew it out slowly, suddenly feeling more weary than he had a right to be, especially considering the amount of rest he’d had. He didn’t even recall having any dreams, which was probably fortunate because they undoubtedly would’ve been unpleasant.

“I’ve brought up some hot water so you can wash up,” Gaius said, then he eyed Merlin for a moment before adding with a very serious expression on his face, “You look as if you’ve been ridden hard and put away wet.”

Merlin frowned in confusion. The reasoning part of his brain was apparently not fully awake yet because his comprehension got stuck at “wash up” and refused to process the rest of what Gaius had said. “I’ve been what?” he asked, trying and failing to translate the strange comment into something that made sense. An unhelpful image formed in his mind of running back and forth on the training field carrying a heavy target while Arthur threw various projectiles at him, and then having a bucket of water dumped over his head in thanks for the effort.

“Like a horse, Merlin,” Gaius said impatiently, as if his meaning should have been obvious.

Merlin blinked for a moment, then groaned as understanding dawned. A ridiculously pleased smile spread over Gaius’s face, and Merlin threw his uninjured arm over his eyes to escape. “Honestly, Gaius, that’s just awful.” He had a feeling, though, that Gaius’s smile had less to do with his own cleverness and more to do with satisfaction at distracting his ward from darker thoughts. It was a lifeline back to the fringes of normalcy, and Merlin grabbed at it gratefully. He peeked out from under his arm and said with a hint of amused accusation, “You made that up, didn’t you?”

Gaius just gave him a wry smile, then shifted back to practicality as he said, “Leave your shirt off after you’ve washed. I want to take a look at your arm.”

“Here, look,” he said as he lifted his left arm a bit and then let it flop back onto the bed. He suppressed a wince at the twinge of pain the movement caused because he didn’t want to ruin the moment of levity. “It’s still attached. What more do you want?”

“Merlin,” Gaius drawled in an admonishing tone.

Merlin huffed and glared at Gaius with a look of feigned indignation. “Honestly, between you and Arthur, I’m beginning to think my name is synonymous with ‘stop messing about’. I’m fairly certain that’s not what my mother had in mind.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that. She’s told me quite a few stories about your childhood mischief,” Gaius said as he crossed his arms over his chest, although there was definitely a playful gleam in his eyes. “Maybe I should share some of them with Arthur. Or Gwen. I’m sure she’d enjoy hearing about what a delightful young scamp you were.”

“You wouldn’t,” Merlin said slowly, looking at Gaius intently, but the only answer he got was an eyebrow lifted slightly higher than it already was. There were things he’d done when he was younger, usually at the instigation of Will, that he wouldn’t care to have recounted to Arthur, because that would give him entirely too much fodder for teasing. As for Gwen... Well, the thought of her knowing what he’d gotten up to as a child was too embarrassing to be considered.

“Fine,” he grumbled. “I’m getting up.” He sat up slowly and noticed that his neck seemed to be unusually stiff, probably from sleeping in one position all night. He tilted his head from side to side until his neck cracked several times, then sighed in relief at the release of tension.

Gaius grimaced. “You’re really too young for your joints to be making popping noises like that,” he said with a vaguely pained look on his face. He’d probably had far too much experience of such things himself. He certainly complained enough on cold winter mornings or on days when the weather was changing.

“Tell that to Arthur,” Merlin replied as he massaged the knot that had formed in the muscle between his neck and shoulder on the left side. “I’m sure it’s his fault.”

Gaius snorted and shook his head, a faint glint of humor in his eyes. Then his expression turned serious as he said, “Speaking of Arthur, you’d better get moving. There was a council meeting called this morning, but it’s due to end soon. I imagine he’ll be looking for you after that.”

“I’m sure he will be,” Merlin muttered distractedly as he tossed the blanket to the side and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. A feeling of unease settled in his stomach as he wondered what was transpiring in the meeting and what it would mean for himself and Arthur. As doggedly persistent as Uther was in hunting down any hint of magic in his kingdom, it wasn’t difficult to imagine the extremes he would resort to in order to find Morgana and make sure Morgause paid for assaulting Camelot and abducting his ward. The castle had presumably already been searched, the lower town would be next, then the nearer villages and the outlying villages and everything else in between. He doubted Uther would even stop at the borders of Camelot itself.

“I’ll go and get your breakfast ready,” Gaius said as reached up and opened the shutter, causing Merlin to blink a bit as his eyes adjusted to the light. Then Gaius left the room, pulling the door nearly closed behind him. He left a slight space between door and jamb, probably so he could listen and make sure there were splashing noises and not the sounds of someone settling back into bed.

Merlin made a grumbling noise of exasperation. It wasn’t as if he crawled back under the covers very often, and even then, not for long, just a few moments to collect his thoughts and mentally prepare himself for the day ahead. Lazing about in bed was a luxury he hadn’t been allowed in Ealdor. He’d been raised to the ingrained peasant’s habit of getting on with what needed to be done, no matter what. Rain or snow or brutal, beating sun, the animals had to be tended. Illness or injury might strike, but tilling and planting, hoeing and harvesting still had to be done. A baby was born, the mother strapped it to her chest in a sling and went back to milking cows or spinning wool as soon as she was able. Someone died, you buried the man or woman or child, mourned briefly, then took the grief along with you as you went back to mending fences or repairing whatever damage the passage of time or the latest storm had done to your home or barn.

It was that kind of persistence in the face of hardship that he needed to draw upon now. Yesterday was gone. He couldn’t wish it back or alter what had passed. The future would tend to itself and apparently had its own designs upon him that were largely out of his control. Today was all he had, and pragmatism lived in the here and now.

He stood up and stretched his injured arm out to the side, bending it at the elbow, rolling his shoulder and flexing his fingers. There wasn’t as much pain in the wound as the day before, although all the joints on that side were a bit stiff. Really, it was ridiculous he was still hurting at all. He hadn’t even noticed the wound until Arthur had pointed it out, and it had scarcely bothered him up until he’d tried to pick up the sword in the corridor outside the council chambers.

He glanced back at his bed to check the weapon was well-hidden. He could only see it if he bent over a bit and looked directly under the bed, and even then it looked like a bunch of dirty laundry. Gaius wasn’t in the habit of picking up after him, made a point of not doing so in fact, so the sword was probably as safe as it could be at the moment. If the dragon got tetchy about being made to wait for his freedom, that was just too bad. It wasn’t as if he could take a jaunt down to the cave in the middle of the day with a suspicious bundle clutched in his arms. Well, he probably could manage it, but he doubted he’d have the opportunity anytime soon. He was unfortunately well-acquainted with the aftermath of disaster in Camelot and knew there would be plenty of work to be done. It was highly unlikely he’d be excused from it again, despite his injured arm.

He looked over at the table under the window and noticed that Gaius had already set out everything he could possibly need for washing up. He realized he had to have been _very_ deeply asleep not to have been awakened by all the coming and going that must’ve been required to prepare and deliver all of it. There was a steaming pot of hot water, a pitcher of cold, a basin, a flannel and soap, a cloth for drying, and a bucket on the floor for dirty water. It seemed he was meant to have a really thorough wash. He gave himself an experimental sniff and decided he needed it.

He was somewhat hampered by not being able to move his left arm in certain ways without intermittent twinges and by attempting to keep the bandage as dry as possible, but he managed the task in a reasonable amount of time. He’d done his laundry just prior to the trip to Idirsholas and so was able to round up an entirely fresh set of clothing. It didn’t take him long to dress since he needed to leave his shirt, spare jacket and neckerchief off until Gaius had poked and prodded his arm. He draped the extra items of clothing over his arm, then stood still for a moment to allow the morning sunlight to warm his aching shoulders. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so clean head to toe, apart from his boots, which were still dusty from the long ride to and from Idirsholas. He was also hard pressed to recall the last time he’d felt so well-rested. The two didn’t often happen at the same time.

Gaius called out to him that his breakfast was getting cold, so he went down into the main room to find his guardian sitting at the table that served as his desk. He was poring over a book, which wasn’t unusual in and of itself, but there were several other books piled haphazardly around him as well, some open, some closed, some with pieces of parchment stuck in them. Merlin could’ve sworn the table had been mostly clear the previous day.

“Did you sleep at all last night?” he asked Gaius with a bit of concern as he laid his shirt, jacket and neckerchief near the edge of the table they used for dining and seated himself on the stool pulled up next to it. There was a bowl of porridge, some bread and cheese and a cup of tea waiting for him.

“What?” Gaius said, but kept his eyes on his book. That single word seemed to be an automatic response whenever someone attempted to interrupt his reading. Merlin had long ago figured out that it really meant something more like ‘wait just a minute’ because repeating a request before Gaius looked up only meant you’d have to say it again once you’d gotten his attention properly.

Gaius finished the page and sat up straight, then peered at Merlin over the top of his eyeglasses for a moment before he said, “Ah. You look much better. Other than your hair sticking up in all directions. Did you misplace your comb again?”

Merlin reached up and smoothed his hair down with his hand. “No. I just forgot to use it.” He added a bit of finger combing, which seemed to satisfy Gaius since he nodded before he got up from his chair. He walked towards the dining table, pausing along the way to retrieve a clean bandage from a basket on the floor and a jar of ointment from the work table.

“That’s not the same stuff you used yesterday, is it?” Merlin asked, eyeing the medication in Gaius’s hand suspiciously.

Gaius didn’t reply with words. He simply paused long enough to treat Merlin to a passable impersonation of Arthur’s “idiot” look, which was more than sufficient to convey his meaning. Merlin supposed he deserved it. He knew there were various concoctions that could be used to prevent infection and promote healing in wounds, so of course Gaius wouldn’t resort to the same one that had nearly had him falling onto the floor in a dazed heap just the previous day.

“Sorry,” he apologized sheepishly. “That was a stupid question.”

Gaius harrumphed as he put the items he’d gathered onto the dining table. He pulled another stool over and positioned it perpendicular to Merlin’s left side, then sat down. “Go ahead and eat while I check your arm,” he said as he proceeded to pick the knot out of the bandage. “There’s been an increase in the number of people going back and forth outside the door in the last few minutes. I think the council meeting has ended.”

Gaius’s assumption proved to be correct. He’d just gotten the bandage off, and Merlin had only managed to eat a few bites of the porridge and a small amount of bread and cheese, when the door opened and Arthur walked in.

“Have a nice lie-in, Merlin?” the prince asked teasingly as he sauntered across the room and smoothly settled himself onto the stool on the opposite side of the table. Merlin didn’t have a chance to respond immediately because his mouth was full of bread, which gave Arthur the opportunity to lean to the side and get a look at his arm.

He seemed to consider the wound for a moment, a slight frown on his face that might’ve been some form of concern, but then he sat back and a smirk slipped easily into place. “Just as I suspected,” he said in a rather self-satisfied manner. “Looks like you managed to run into a sword. Well done, Merlin. That’s going to leave a nice scar.” He almost sounded cheerful at that last bit.

Merlin paused in his chewing, frowning at Arthur’s evident pleasure that he was going to be marked for life. He was momentarily distracted by Gaius gently wiping the remainder of the previous day’s ointment away from the wound and beginning to apply the new medication. He finished chewing and swallowed as he looked at the injury with a more critical eye than he previously had done. It probably would leave a conspicuous scar, and he wouldn’t be able to spell it away because Arthur knew about it and would likely notice its absence if he ever had occasion to see his bare arm again.

He glanced back at Arthur, who gave him a wide grin and said, “You should be pleased. It’ll be a respectable scar. Or are you worried about your lily-white skin being marred?”

Merlin gave Arthur his own special glare that correlated to the “idiot” one, but meant “prat” instead. “Respectable scars? Is that some sort of thick-headed knight thing?” he asked in a lightly derisive tone of voice.

A look of annoyance flitted briefly over Arthur’s features but was quickly replaced by a mocking one. “Not that I would expect you to understand such things, Merlin,” he said with the expected condescending emphasis on the name, “since it would take a miracle of epic proportions for you to ever become a knight, but yes, men who are trained fighters do have a certain measure of respect for wounds received in battle, as opposed to, say, injuries gotten by clumsy, bumbling servants tripping down stairs, dropping things on their own feet, walking into walls, that sort of thing.”

Merlin glared in response to the insinuation that he was just such a servant, but at the same time he couldn’t deny he’d done every one of the things Arthur had mentioned, and then some. Arthur grinned smugly, probably quite pleased with himself for landing a very tidy indirect insult. Merlin ignored him and went back to eating his breakfast. For some reason, Arthur’s taunting was even more irksome this morning than it usually was. It was probably best he didn’t respond any further because he might say something that would land him in the stocks.

After a short pause, Arthur added, “I’m also told that women find certain kinds of scars attractive.”

“What?” Merlin spluttered, nearly spitting out the spoonful of porridge he’d just put in his mouth. He recovered and quickly swallowed, then dropped the spoon back into the bowl. “That’s ridiculous,” he said, narrowing his eyes and peering intently at Arthur. He very well might be hoping Merlin would show his scar to some woman, hoping to impress her, and be laughed at or treated as some kind of seriously disturbed person instead.

Arthur shrugged his shoulders. “Ask Gaius if you don’t believe me.”

Merlin turned and looked at the physician, who was now in the process of winding a fresh bandage around his arm. “I have, on occasion,” he said slowly, continuing his task as he spoke, “had ladies come to me in confidence to confirm whether the stories certain knights have told them about their scars are true. The more ghastly the tale, the more impressed they seem to be.”

“Oh. That’s ... interesting,” Merlin said, completely dumbfounded. He watched Gaius tie off the ends of the bandage as he turned this new bit of knowledge over in his mind. He supposed it made sense if a woman was attracted to the rough, tough, save-the-word types, as Gwen had once phrased it. He doubted she’d be impressed by evidence of a past wound, though. She’d probably just be sad it had ever happened.

He looked down at the table and nudged the bowl of porridge away from him. He’d suddenly lost his appetite. Thinking of a sorrowful Gwen had put a painful knot in his stomach. He wondered if he would ever have the courage to tell her what he’d done to Morgana or even if he should. Gwen would probably forgive him. Of course she would. She might even try to make him feel better, which was precisely why he couldn’t tell her. Forgiveness was one thing he couldn’t accept right now.

“What’s the matter, Merlin? Did I put you off your feed by talking about girls?” Arthur asked in an unpleasantly biting tone. So often he forgot that Merlin wasn’t a knight and didn’t respond to such extremes of ridicule in the bizarre way that he’d seen some of Arthur’s men react, as if they were somehow more worthy for receiving direct attention, no matter how negative, or had been granted a level of acceptance through jesting and jeering. “I’m only trying to be helpful, you know. You’ll probably need every advantage you can get if you ever want to succeed in attracting a woman.”

Whatever Arthur’s intention had been, his words had an effect that probably would’ve utterly confounded him, and surprised and shocked even Merlin. Several intense images rushed abruptly through his mind, memories set off by talk of scars and women and doubt that he could ever love or be loved.

Freya, cowering in fear in the bounty hunter’s cage. His anger that anyone could be treated so callously. The spells he’d cast to release her. Her downcast eyes and reluctance to believe she was worth anyone’s trouble to save, much less deserving of kindness and love. Candlelight, a craving for strawberries, a single rose and the soft warmth of her lips as he kissed her. Hope and dreams torn apart by the anguish of the truth.

He could easily imagine the hatred and loathing that must’ve been in Arthur’s eyes when he’d mortally wounded her, uncaring of who she was or what she might’ve meant to anyone else. He’d probably been blinded by the threat of magic and had unthinkingly struck out against it. She’d been nothing more to him than an enemy of Camelot, and he’d killed her, coldly and without remorse.

Bitter, scalding emotions swirled through Merlin as his hand turned into a trembling fist on the tabletop. Several heated and less than rational thoughts spun through his mind. Throwing the bowl of porridge in Arthur’s face because he was too damn smug for his own good. Yelling several insults that were far more caustic and exceedingly more rude than “prat” because Arthur paid no heed to what others might be feeling. Grabbing the unnecessary fork that Gaius had laid on the table next to his spoon and finding a purpose for it by jabbing it into Arthur’s hand because he had murdered Freya and gotten nothing but praise for it.

He could feel his skin flushing with the heat of his rage, but then Gaius laid a firm hand on his arm, right over the wound. The resultant sharp pain and ensuing deep ache did what Gaius probably intended them to do. Merlin gasped, and the wild intensity of emotions was swiftly driven away, leaving behind a cold and painful hollowness that nearly made him physically shiver. He’d never felt this kind of pure and burning hatred towards Arthur for what had happened to Freya. He’d rationalized it away, excused the prince for doing what needed to be done to defend the people of Camelot.

He drew in a shaky breath and deliberately relaxed his fingers, spreading them out flat on the rough wood of the tabletop. Gaius had warned him that something like this might happen eventually, that anger was actually a good thing because it meant he was working through his grief. He hadn’t expected it to happen so suddenly, though, or at such a seemingly odd time and place. Maybe it was the anguish of yet another loss that had brought the tumult caused by Freya’s demise to the fore once again. Only a few days ago, Morgana had been beautiful and smiling instead of gasping and struggling to cling to life.

It took several long moments for the disturbingly bright images to fade completely from his mind and for his breathing and heartbeat to settle. He vaguely realized he should probably say something to explain his near outburst. Arthur was strangely silent. Surely he must’ve had noticed the signs of an abrupt surge of anger. That was one emotion to which he was finely attuned, due to the fact that it could signal an impending attack. Merlin shuddered at the thought that he actually had nearly assaulted Arthur and probably wouldn’t have stopped with the fork if he’d given in to the impulse.

He looked hesitantly up at the prince. All traces of taunting and smugness were gone, replaced by confusion and wariness. Apparently he’d sensed that he’d tripped over something painful and raw and potentially volatile. Merlin doubted he had any clue of what it might be and was probably shying away from trying to figure it out.

Both of them were saved from having to say anything to directly diffuse the situation, or more likely to find a way to avoid it entirely, by a knock at the door. Merlin looked over anxiously, worried that in the inconvenient way these sorts of things often played out, it might just be the one person who could possibly make the situation more awkward – Gwen. He might not be able to resist the urge to crawl under the table if it was her. His hand snaked across the table to grab his shirt, and he pulled it over and held it in front of his chest.

The door opened immediately, though, no pause to wait for a response from within the room, which usually meant a noble or a knight was there. It turned out to be Sir Leon, looking for Arthur. “Sire,” he said with a deferential nod of his head. “If I might have a word with you?”

“Of course,” Arthur said, but he turned back to Merlin before he got up and said quietly, “Finish your breakfast. You probably won’t have time to eat again before this evening. There’s a lot to be done.” There was one last flicker of uneasy curiosity in his expression, then he seemed to dismiss it, either to be brought up again later, probably at the most inopportune moment possible, or forgotten entirely. Merlin fervently hoped it was the latter.


	4. Foreboding

As soon as Arthur and Leon had left Gaius’s chambers and closed the door behind them, Merlin let out a huge, shuddering breath and buried his face in his hands. He had to brace his elbows on the tabletop to keep his arms from shaking, and it was only because of the pressure of his fingers against his closed eyelids that he managed to keep the tears mostly at bay. At few leaked out, though, running hot and bitter down his cheeks, and he could feel his body trembling despite his best efforts to hold it still.

“You’re thinking of Freya, aren’t you?” Gaius asked softly.

Merlin nodded jerkily, not trusting himself to speak. Hearing her name spoken aloud, though, was oddly soothing. He would have thought it would cause him even more pain, but he supposed having someone else know that she had been a person before anything else, more than a curse or a monster, helped to assuage the anguish brought on by the memory of her.

The comforting weight of Gaius’s hand settled on top of his uninjured shoulder, the touch firm and steady, the bridge to a calming presence. Merlin’s breathing gradually settled, the stinging faded from his eyes, and the tension in his body eased, until he was finally able to lower his hands from his face without sobbing. He simply couldn’t allow his grief to overwhelm him at the moment because that would end with physical and mental exhaustion. Far better to deal with the transitory pain of holding back the emotions.

“How did you know?” he asked as he swept the remainder of tears from his eyes and face. There was a bit of salt on his lips as well, and he gently brushed at it with his fingertips, tasting and remembering. He’d shed a tear the first time he’d kissed her, overwhelmed by finding someone with whom he could be utterly honest, a kindred soul who saw his magic as beautiful and not something to be feared.

“Call it intuition,” Gaius said as he gave Merlin’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, then folded his hands in his lap. “I’ve seen a lot of broken hearts in my time.”

“But it wasn’t only that,” Merlin replied as his fingers strayed upwards to rub at his temples. He had a headache now. Repressing intense emotions nearly always did that to him. “I was angry, really and truly furious with Arthur. I know you told me that might happen, but I suppose I didn’t quite believe you. I thought I’d dealt with it and set it aside.”

“It hasn’t been that long since she died, Merlin, and it was a very traumatic experience. It can’t be tidily wrapped up and stored away so easily.”

Gaius’s voice was warm and gentle, and the reassuring sound of it helped Merlin to piece the fragments of his composure back together. He’d known the previous day that he was perilously close to some kind of breakdown. He only hoped this was the end of it for the time being. Arthur might return at any moment. Actually, he was surprised the prince hadn’t already blundered back in. Then again, he might be taking his time with whatever business Leon had brought to him, giving Merlin the opportunity to pull himself back together so they could both pretend nothing had happened.

He figured he should probably finish getting dressed before Arthur did return, which would undoubtedly happen sooner or later given what he’d said about there being a great deal of work to be done. He glanced over to where he’d left his shirt, jacket and neckerchief near the edge of the table, then frowned when he saw the shirt was no longer there.

“It’s in your lap,” Gaius said in a mildly amused tone.

Merlin looked down and saw that his shirt was indeed bunched up on top of his legs. He remembered now that he’d grabbed it and held it up in front of himself when he’d thought Gwen might be knocking at the door. He must’ve dropped it when he’d covered his face with his hands. That was probably a good thing because otherwise the fabric would’ve been splotched with tears.

He picked the shirt up and started to shake it out, but as he lifted his arms higher to completely unwind it, a sudden twist of pain went through his injured arm. He sucked in a sharp breath and dropped the shirt, then used his right hand to grip the opposite forearm and pull the protesting limb across his stomach.

“I can give you something for the pain,” Gaius offered, his voice soft and concerned.

“No, I’ll be all right,” Merlin replied quickly. Then he realized that sounded like an automatic response, which it probably was, so he added, “My arm’s a bit stiff, but it only really hurts when I raise it up to the side. Other than that, it’s fine.” Which wasn’t entirely true. There was a vague, prickling sensation lingering in the wound itself, but that was probably normal. He’d once sliced his hand rather badly while skinning a rabbit, and it had stung for some time afterwards, until it was well on its way to healing. What he was experiencing now was likely similar to that. If there was anything truly wrong with the wound, Gaius would have seen it when he’d been changing the bandage.

To prove he could function perfectly well as he was, he got up from the table and pulled his shirt over his head, even managing to get his arms into the sleeves with just a slight wince. He gave the bottom hem of the shirt a tug to straighten it, then realized he wasn’t quite sure where his belt was. He thought he recalled putting it on the bench next to the work table after he’d taken it off the previous day, but it wasn’t there now.

Yet again, Gaius provided an answer without being asked. “It’s on top of the work table,” he said matter-of-factly, looking at Merlin with an impassive expression on his face.

Merlin suppressed a bit of annoyance at the feeling that he’d been completely discombobulated by the surge of emotion set off by thoughts of Freya. He firmly told himself that she was gone, given to the flames and the water. He needed to focus on practical matters, carry on with his life. She would want that. Wouldn’t she? He couldn’t avoid the fact that he’d hardly known her at all. She’d been a dream, soft eyes and candlelight, an idyllic wandering along a path that had disappeared into shadows.

He shoved the memories aside and walked over to scan the work table, finally locating his belt sitting on the corner in a neat coil. Gaius must’ve been distracted enough by the events of the past few days that he’d temporarily forgotten his resolve not to tidy up after his ward. Merlin smiled faintly as he dropped his jacket and neckerchief onto the bench and picked up the belt, then realized there was no sign of the shirt he’d been wearing the day before. “Where’s my–”

“Gwen took it.”

Merlin looked over at Gaius, who merely sat there and didn’t offer any further information. “All right,” he said slowly, somewhat perturbed at the way Gaius kept anticipating what he was going to say. “Why did Gwen take my shirt?”

Gaius’s expression turned strangely sad at the question, leaving Merlin feeling uneasy about what the response would be. He absently unrolled his belt and fastened it around his waist as Gaius explained. “She came by earlier this morning to check on you – Arthur told her you’d been injured – and she saw the shirt lying there. She wanted to wash and mend it for you.”

“She didn’t have to do that,” Merlin replied, feeling an immediate stab of guilt that Gwen would do anything kind for him, when he’d been so unutterably cruel to her, even though it had been indirectly. He hadn’t even had the courage to bring her the news of Morgana’s abduction.

“I told her as much,” Gaius said quietly, “but she insisted. I think perhaps she’s feeling somewhat lost without Morgana to look after and wanted something useful to do. I didn’t think you’d mind.” Gaius was looking closely at him now, as if he sensed there was a more significant reason for Merlin’s protest than simply not wanting someone else to take on what should be his responsibility.

“No, it’s fine,” he said in what he hoped was a neutral tone. He didn’t trust his eyes to follow suit, though, so he busied himself with putting on his jacket and neckerchief. He needed to steer the conversation away from Gwen before Gaius tried to reassure him that she’d be fine, because he was the last one who deserved any kind of comfort or release of responsibility on that count. “What were you reading?” he asked as he finished the knot on the neckerchief and seated himself next to Gaius once more.

“Oh, a little bit of everything, I suppose,” Gaius replied as he frowned and turned to stare at the piles of books and papers on his desk. He seemed somewhat troubled, which meant the subject matter wasn’t light. “I was looking for information about the Knights of Medhir and their swords, but the references are scattered and not especially detailed. I did find quite a bit on the effects of magical weapons in general, though.”

Merlin supposed he should’ve known what Gaius had been researching, but he’d been rather distracted by everything that had happened in the short time since he’d awoken. He had a feeling it was going to be a very long and highly disagreeable day, and he wasn’t entirely certain he wanted to know what Gaius had found. On the other hand, he didn’t want to be caught completely unawares if something odd were to happen and end up in a mad scramble to find a solution for some unexpected magical problem. He’d had quite enough of that the day before.

“Is there anything in particular to be worried about?” Merlin asked hesitantly, fairly certain he was about to be deluged with possibilities, none of them pleasant. They were dealing with cursed knights, after all, and ones who had been determined to kill anything that moved in Camelot just a day ago.

Gaius shrugged slightly and said, “Most of what I’ve found relates to the immediate consequences of the use of enchanted weapons. We would’ve seen the results already. But unfortunately, I don’t think we can assume you’re completely safe just yet.”

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” Merlin said wryly. “Any specific concerns, or is this just a vague doom-and-gloom sort of feeling?” He was trying for a bit of humor, but Gaius only gave him a deep frown before standing up and walking over to his desk.

He shifted a book to the side and pulled another one to the center. “There is one particular spell that concerns me,” he said in a voice roughened by evident worry, but he cleared his throat as he opened the book and turned several pages until he found the one he wanted. “This isn’t the incantation itself, just a description of its use.”

Merlin looked at him questioningly, expecting a summary of what was involved, but Gaius carried the book over to him instead, set it down on the table, turned it around and pushed it towards to him. “Read it,” he said, a slight quiver in his voice. Then he sat down on the stool on the opposite side of the table, waiting expectantly.

Merlin lowered his eyes and did as he was told.

_Among the latent enchantments, and more specifically those cast upon objects, there are a handful of curiosities, one of which is the so-called Lifeblood Curse. Unlike the majority of dormant incantations, which require preparatory magic to be cast upon a person or object, the Lifeblood Curse can be cast upon any weapon, magical or otherwise, after it has been used to inflict a wound. All that is needed is the weapon itself, the identity of the victim, and knowledge of the nature of the wound._

_There are certain limitations to a successful casting of the spell, the first of these being one of time, in that the incantation must be recited before the wound has completely healed. Distance from the intended victim is also a factor. The casting range can be limited or increased relative to the power of the magic user, but can also be affected by physical and magical barriers between the caster and target._

_Once the enchantment is placed upon the weapon, a connection is established with the injured person. The clotting of the victim’s blood is immediately suppressed or, in cases where the flow of blood has already stopped, the wound will break open and bleed again. After this occurs, the bleeding cannot be staunched, no matter the treatment. The victim will eventually perish, the timing of death being related to the severity of the wound and proximity to vital organs or major blood vessels. If only an isolated limb is involved and the wound is situated far enough from the trunk of the body, amputation of the limb can effectively remove the concentration of magic and may save the victim’s life._

_However, one note of caution should be added regarding attempts to treat a wound inflicted by this particular spell. There is a variation of the curse, an account of which is recorded in_ The History of the Perversions of Sorcery _, that causes any contact with the ensorcelled wound to aggravate the injury and cause additional disruption to adjacent tissues. Skin and muscle are typically affected, but bones and vital organs may also be involved. In this case, since attempts to tend to the wound will only cause further damage and considerable suffering, it is advisable to consider easing the victim’s pain by hastening his death._

Merlin slowly closed the book and gingerly shoved it back towards Gaius. Now he regretted finishing his breakfast because such a roiling sense of disgust was growing in the pit of his stomach that he felt he might be sick. This Lifeblood Curse was indeed a perversion of sorcery, and he didn’t even want to contemplate the kind of black-hearted creature that would create such a thing, much less use it. At least on the rare occasions when he’d been driven to resort to killing, he’d tried to use the quickest methods available to him, although a very dark part of him wondered if he wouldn’t resort to using such a curse if it were the only means available to him to avert a catastrophe. He’d been quick enough to use poison, after all, and that wasn’t exactly a method that provided a painless death, as he well knew.

He swallowed against the nausea those thoughts were causing, not to mention the possibility of he himself becoming the victim of such a curse. He took a deep breath to dull the razor edges of his nerves, but fear remained sharp in his guts and in his mind. Then something occurred to him that might mitigate the chances of the Lifeblood Curse being inflicted upon him. “But Morgause would need to have the sword that wounded me to cast this curse, wouldn’t she?”

“Under normal circumstances, yes,” Gaius replied, slowly nodding his head, but his brow was furrowed and his eyes were dark with something decidedly unsettling. “But the Swords of Medhir are unusual in a particular way.”

Merlin frowned in confusion as Gaius got up and went back over to his desk. He rummaged a bit, finally pulling out a worn piece of parchment. He adjusted his eyeglasses on his nose and read aloud. “ _The sorceress Harrowen, Lady of Medhir, was well pleased with the bonds she had placed upon her knights, but still she was troubled that others might take up the knights’ swords, powerfully enchanted as they were, and use them against her. So she likewise bound their blades to her own, so that her sword and the Swords of Medhir were as one._ ” Gaius took off his eyeglasses and set them carefully down on the desk.

“Do you think Morgause has Harrowen’s sword?” Merlin asked reluctantly. It didn’t seem far-fetched to him at all. She’d found the knights and had known how to awaken them. She very well might have the sword in her keeping as well.

“I suppose it’s possible, but she could have just as easily substituted her own sword and bound the knights to it,” Gaius replied. “She was raised by the high priestesses of the Old Religion. She likely would have been well-versed in the deeds of Harrowen and would certainly use that knowledge to her advantage.”

Merlin nodded slightly and looked down. The unsettled feeling in his stomach was making itself keenly known again, even as he tried to convince himself that it was hardly a foregone conclusion that Morgause would be able to use this curse. Even if she knew the spell and had bound the Swords of Medhir to her own, she still needed knowledge of the injury. He didn’t think she’d been there when he’d been wounded. Then again, she might’ve been lurking in the shadows, observing the encounter, or she might’ve seen the events through the crystal she possessed, or she could’ve learned what she needed to know through her connection to the knights.

The door abruptly opened at that point, effectively cutting off any further contemplation or discussion. Arthur was standing there and he looked rather annoyed. Merlin actually found himself grateful for that, because if anything was going to distract him from ominous thoughts, it was Arthur in a fit of pique. Such a situation didn’t allow for brooding, only action and perhaps a bit of friendly antagonism on either or both sides.

“So are you planning on doing any work at all today, Merlin?” Arthur didn’t wait for an answer, which was not at all surprising to Merlin. It obviously wasn’t a question, just a taunt in the form of one. “I’ve been all the way to the smithy and back while you’ve been sitting here relaxing.”

“You told me to finish my breakfast,” Merlin said irritably.

Arthur paused for a moment, obviously having forgotten he’d told Merlin exactly that. “Well, you’ve had enough time to eat half a horse,” he finally said with a glare, then forestalled any clever rejoinders by turning to Gaius. Merlin was left with suppressing a sudden urge to neigh or toss out a variety of puns related to horses. Actually, he might save that for distraction later in the day, especially if Arthur was going to be especially overbearing today.

“Simon has been working on melting down the swords,” Arthur said, having easily shifted to his most business-like tone, “but it’s taking a great deal more heat than normal steel would need. It’s slow going. Do you know of anything that might make the job go more quickly?”

“Me, Sire?” Gaius asked in confusion. “I know very little about metalworking.”

“Yes, of course, I just thought that you might have read of something that would help.”

“Other than magic or dragon’s fire, which obviously are not options, I’m afraid there’s nothing I can suggest. You might ask Gwen, though.”

“Gwen?” Arthur’s expression was so dumbfounded that Merlin had to suppress a chuckle. Gaius might as well have suggested the prince sprout wings and fly the swords up to the sun.

“Yes, Sire,” Gaius replied calmly. “You might recall that she is a blacksmith’s daughter. Although I doubt she would have received any formal training, it’s likely she helped tend the forge when she was younger.”

“Oh.” Although Arthur looked a bit less befuddled, it was obvious he was still trying to piece something together in his mind. Probably trying to picture a child-Gwen in a soot-smeared smock assisting a master blacksmith. “Um, I’ll take that into consideration if Simon continues to have difficulty.” He gave a slight shake of his head, probably setting aside incongruous images. “Maybe we’ll figure out what happened to the seventh sword in the meantime.”

“One of the swords is missing?” Gaius asked, restrained distress evident in his voice and eyes. Merlin wondered why he would be particularly bothered by the revelation since they’d already established that Morgause might be able to use her own sword to cast the Lifeblood Curse. Gaius might be figuring, though, that if she had one of the Swords of Medhir in her hands, her task might be that much easier. Merlin briefly considered privately telling Gaius he had the sword, if only to set his guardian’s mind at ease, but that might lead to having to return the sword before he’d used it for its intended purpose. He didn’t want to be forced onto a path that was even less of his own choosing than the one he was already following.

“Only six of the swords made it to the forge,” Arthur replied. “We’ve got a search underway to locate the missing one.”

Merlin’s heart skipped a beat. Actually, it might’ve been more than one beat. His chest was suddenly hurting. He was glad he was facing away from his bedroom door because he might’ve been tempted to glance in that direction, and even if Arthur didn’t notice, Gaius would. “Maybe there were only six swords,” he interjected, carefully keeping desperation out of his voice, hoping he might somehow get Arthur to call off the search before it got to Gaius’s quarters.

“There were seven knights, Merlin,” Arthur said, obviously galled by being presented with such an unlikely scenario. “I hardly think one of them showed up without a weapon, not to mention I’m pretty sure every one of them took a swing at me with a sword at some point. I doubt they were sharing.”

Merlin’s gaze flicked from Arthur to Gaius, who was looking rather confused. That was decidedly not good because a perplexed Gaius inevitably became an intensely contemplative Gaius. Merlin doubted it would take much consideration for Gaius to figure his ward had something to do with the sword’s disappearance, especially if he persisted with fumbling attempts to explain it away. Then a perfect and simple solution presented itself, just as it had the day before. One statement and the matter might be settled. “Morgause took it,” he said, hoping he sounded decisive and not as though he were manufacturing explanations out of thin air.

“ _Morgause_ took it,” Arthur repeated disbelievingly.

“Yes. She did,” Merlin replied, nodding emphatically. As with the previous day’s inspired lie, he felt he should provide a bit more careful detail. Such a bald statement wouldn’t hold up on its own. “When I woke up, just before she disappeared, she had one arm around Morgana and the other hand was holding a sword. The blade was dirty and pitted, and it had a gold hilt. It had to have been the seventh sword. Her own sword was in the scabbard on her belt.”

Arthur stared at him for a moment, his expression inscrutable. Then he shook his head and ran a hand over his face before saying in a strained voice, “And you didn’t think to mention this until now?”

“I only just remembered.” He shrugged and tried to look apologetic. “Everything was a bit muddled yesterday.”

“More like _you_ were a _lot_ muddled,” Arthur said with a glare.

Merlin didn’t dare to refute the statement. Apart from it being true, he felt it was probably best to leave well enough alone. It seemed that Arthur believed his story, and that was the best possible outcome. He didn’t want to unsettle it by spewing more nonsense. He was rather astonished that he’d successfully carried off two outright lies in as many days. Perhaps he’d actually figured out the secret of lying – keep it simple and don’t waver. Or he’d merely gotten lucky. Probably the latter.

“Go and saddle my horse,” Arthur said with an impatient wave of his hand. “I need to find Leon and tell him to call off the search.” Merlin immediately stood and nodded, but then Arthur amended his order. “No, _you_ go and find Leon and explain to him that you have a sieve for a brain and that he’s been spending his valuable time looking for something that isn’t here. _Then_ you can go and saddle my horse. The bodies of the knights are to be burned outside the city walls. We’ll need to be going soon if it’s to be done before sundown.”

“Yes, Sire,” Merlin said, glancing at Gaius, who raised his eyebrows, but only slightly. He might just be safe from Gaius’s suspicion as well. At the moment, though, he was immensely glad simply to be getting away from this room and to be leaving his lies behind. He headed over to the door, but paused before he opened it, causing Arthur to nearly run into him as he followed behind. “Wait a minute. Just _your_ horse? How am I supposed to get there?”

“You’ll be riding in one of the carts,” Arthur said in exasperation. Then his tone shifted to sarcastic as he added, “As amazed as I occasionally am at the amount of work you somehow manage to get done, I thought it best we have some help with this one. There’s a cart for the bodies and two for the wood, so the three drivers and you to see to the pyre.”

“Ah. I see.” Merlin started to open the door, but stopped again to ask, “What are you going to be doing?”

Yet again Arthur somehow managed to avoid a collision, although he seemed somewhat riled by the necessity. “I’m going to be doing what I do best, of course,” he said with a mockingly cheerful grin. “Supervising.”

Merlin suppressed a groan as Arthur reached around, opened the door and shoved him through it. That meant the prince would be prowling around with a scowl on his face while everyone else did the work. Hot, sweaty, exhausting work. His injured arm would probably end up throbbing by the end of the day. He only hoped that was all that happened. Despite all the conditions and circumstances that would have to be met for the Lifeblood Curse to become a reality, it somehow felt like an inevitability, a glimpse of something possible rushing towards probable.


	5. Revenge

Morgause had labored through the end of one day, past the dark watches of the night into dawn, and late into the afternoon of the next day to bring Morgana back from the brink of death. She’d relied heavily on healing magic and various potions, and had even resorted to a touch of black sorcery, but she’d succeeded in the end. It would take some time for Morgana to completely recover, but at least Morgause felt reasonably sure that would be possible. Now, for the first time in the desperate hours since she’d brought them to this remote and isolated stronghold, one of her many secret refuges, she felt safe in leaving Morgana’s bedside. One of her most trusted servants, a woman who had been in her service for many long and often difficult years, remained to keep watch in the darkened chamber, the curtains drawn and a single candle holding vigil.

Morgause pulled the door softly closed and went out into the great hall of the keep. There was space aplenty in the vaulted room to pace back and forth, which she set about doing with grim determination. She was more exhausted than she could recall being in a very long time, but it wouldn’t be possible for her to properly rest, not until she’d had time to sort through what had happened and consider what to do next. Most of all, she wanted to figure a way to strike back at that confounded pestilence of a servant who’d had the audacity to attempt to take the life of his better, and then make demands of Morgause herself. Outwardly he seemed to be all gangly limbs, long face and wide eyes, pale skin and awkward ears. But there had been fire in him as well, a strength of purpose and conviction that was not commonly found in a servant’s heart. There was almost something noble about him.

Nevertheless, he had attacked someone dear to her, nigh on murdered Morgana, and he must be made to pay, the sooner the better. But how? She supposed she could transport herself back to Camelot, track him down and stick a knife in his heart, but she didn’t think her mind was clear enough at the moment to perform the complicated transference spell that she would need to cross the leagues of distance in an instant. She didn’t want to entrust the task to anyone else, nor did she feel comfortable with leaving Morgana in such a frail condition, so for the time being, she was left with no options that she could see to enact her revenge.

Frustration drove her pacing for a while, but she eventually grew tired, the weariness of her body forcing her to sit down in a chair beside the blazing hearth. There was a table along the side wall of the room where food and drink was laid out, but she had little appetite. Her sword and armor were also at hand, arranged on a separate table, the armor polished but the sword still sheathed and otherwise untouched. She never let anyone else tend to her sword, lest they disrupt or become the victim of whatever enchantments had been laid upon it most recently. At the moment, there was a bond to the swords of the Knights of Medhir, but that link was weakening. She had sensed it diminishing over the last several hours, not giving it much thought because she had been otherwise occupied with healing Morgana, and because the bond was of little use now that the knights themselves had returned to the hell that housed their souls when their bodies were still and silent. She suspected the swords were being destroyed, and more than likely the knights themselves would follow, if they hadn’t already been consigned to the fire. It was what she would do, and she did not underestimate her opponents. At least, none other than Merlin. She was still bewildered by the seeming ease with which he had thwarted her. All the more reason to do away with him.

Frustrated that there seemed to be nothing that could immediately be done to end the boy’s galling existence, she strode over and retrieved her sword, along with the whetstone and oiled cleaning cloth that had been left beside it, and returned to her fireside chair. She hadn’t had a chance to bathe or put on fresh clothing since just before she’d led her dark knights into Camelot. She supposed it might be civilized to do so now that she’d tended to Morgana, but she was presently feeling more wild and savage than genteel. A sword suited her mood far better.

She drew the blade and laid the scabbard across her knees, keeping the sword aloft in her hand. It was clean and bright, unsullied by blood, not blunted by metal or bone, but she nevertheless braced the point against the floor and laid the whetstone to the edge, sliding stone across metal with a pleasing, rasping sound. An odd sensation made her pause, though. There was a vague hum deep in the metal, as if something was still somehow bound to the sword. She let the whetstone fall to the floor and gently laid her fingers on the flat of the blade. She needed to concentrate to better identify the nature of the connection, and the touch of bare flesh to naked steel would aid her in that effort.

At first there was just the tang of blood on her tongue and a sense of skin parting under a sharp edge. Someone had been wounded, but not by this sword. By one of the knights, then. But who had been injured? She pressed her senses further into the metal and through the magic permeating the blade.

She saw a familiar castle, rising in staggered ruins above a plain of parched grass. Idirsholas. There were knights wearing bright armor and red cloaks entering the citadel. Prince Arthur’s men. The prince was there himself, along with his servant.

Morgause leaned further over the blade, her breath quickening. She had left her awakened but quiescent knights behind in order to attend to other matters necessary to her plan. She hadn’t been aware that Arthur had gone to Idirsholas. Dare she hope that the wound she could sense had been inflicted upon the prince or his servant? There were ways to use even a minor drawing of blood to open a doorway into death. The untimely end of either potential victim would be intensely satisfying to her, one for the pain it would cause Uther and the unrest it would bring upon the kingdom, the other for the joy of simple revenge.

In her mind’s eye she could see the brazier she’d used to cast her enchantment, the fire burned out and only ashes remaining upon the sand. Her own knights stepped forward out of the cobweb-strewn shadows. There was a skirmish, blades clashing, the Knights of Medhir imbued with unnatural persistence and dark presence, the men of Camelot nimble and steadfast but filled with fear. Arthur fought well, landing killing blows more than once, but in vain against undead flesh. Merlin was in the shadows, watching, but not entirely escaping notice. When he was attacked, he moved with surprising speed and agility, avoiding the slash of steel, but then he was distracted, for the slightest of moments. Just long enough for one of the knights to graze his arm, slicing through clothing to reach skin. A shallow wound, but that was all she needed.

She lifted her hand from the blade and sat back, allowing herself a moment of blissful anticipation. Then she rose and strode out of the room, heading for the battlements. She needed to be in the open air, near to the sky, for this to work properly. There must be as little as possible shielding her intended target from her. If he was outside of walls, with nothing but the wind between them, her task would be that much easier.

She counted her steps as she went, imaging they were the dwindling moments of Merlin’s life. A laugh rippled up and out of her and echoed through the halls of the castle.

*****

Although Arthur often teased Merlin about being a bumbling idiot, the truth was that he was efficient and effective in his duties more often than not. The prince was reminded of that yet again today as he watched his servant helping to tend the blazing pyre consuming the remains of the Knights of Medhir.

Arthur had personally chosen the location for the burning, a rocky patch of land a good distance from the city. There was a large amount of flat, exposed stone and jagged outcroppings here, more rock than soil, so it was useless as farmland and also happened to be downwind of the city on this day. A deep depression in one expanse of bare stone had offered an ideal place to lay the pyre. The ashes would be contained there fairly well and could be buried over with rocks afterwards, effectively sealing them off in a makeshift tomb.

Other servants had gathered the necessary wood and had loaded it and the bodies onto carts early in the day, but once the convoy arrived at the site, Merlin had wordlessly pitched in to help erect the pyre as well as shift the bodies onto it. Arthur had noticed his frequent pauses to stretch and bend his wounded arm, but he hadn’t complained or asked to be excused, so Arthur left him be. He had a suspicion his servant felt a pressing need to see this job completed, judging from his focus and almost complete lack of chatter, even when he took breaks for water.

At the moment Merlin was roving around the fire with a long metal rod in his hands, waiting for the periodic settling of the fuel below the bodies. Then he and a pair of other servants similarly equipped would spring forward and push and prod at whatever was in danger of tumbling out of the confines of the stony bed of the pyre. There was another servant holding something that was like a very large bellows, which he applied when any part of the fire started to burn out before its work was finished.

It was obviously hot and difficult work, and all four of the men tending the fire had abandoned whatever jackets and cloaks they’d been wearing some time ago, leaving just their shirts to protect their upper bodies from the showers of sparks that came whenever part of the pyre collapsed, as well from the intermittent popping embers that became more frequent as the fire burned lower. They also wore neckerchiefs tied over their mouths and noses to keep the wood smoke from their lungs. He’d occasionally wondered why Merlin wore such a silly thing, but he supposed it was for practical purposes like this. Fortunately, most of the thick, black fume expelled from the bodies of the knights was rising more or less upwards, angled slightly away from the city by the light wind that had been blowing all afternoon.

Arthur felt a bit guilty that the higher ground where he was standing to overlook the proceedings was much better situated to catch the breeze, even though there was a bit of a chill in the air. He was still wearing his jacket and was quite comfortable that way, despite a clear sky and a bright afternoon sun. The only blight on what would otherwise have been quite a pleasant day was the smoke. He looked up and his eyes followed the smudge of darkness as it drifted away towards the horizon. He imagined for a moment that it was the souls of the unfortunate men who had been enslaved by sorcery so long ago and were now finally being released from their unwilling servitude.

He was brought back from his reverie by the return of the final member of the party which had set out from the city hours ago. He was a young boy, probably not more than thirteen or fourteen, whose job it was to bring water to those tending the fire, in between his trips back to the city to return the empty carts. He’d just completed his second such journey, arriving back at the burning site on foot as before. There was one cart remaining, but first the boy took the bucket he’d been repeatedly filling at a small nearby stream and went off to fetch more water, coming back a short time later and taking it to the workers. Initially he’d brought the full bucket directly to the prince so he could take a drink before the others, but Arthur had only done so the first time and had told the boy to let the workers have their fill before him after that.

Arthur watched as Merlin pulled his neckerchief off and used it to wipe the sweat and soot from his face, then took the ladle from the bucket and had a long drink. He grinned at the boy, said a few words to him and ruffled his hair. It was the first time Arthur had seen a sincere smile from his servant all day. Perhaps it was because they were nearing the end of the day’s task, the fire already reduced to nothing more than smoldering embers in some places. The building of the cairn would be left for tomorrow, after the ashes had cooled.

Finished with offering water to all of the workers, the boy walked up the slope towards Arthur. “Would you like a drink, Sire?” he asked as he ducked his head. He hadn’t looked Arthur in the eye once all afternoon and hadn’t spoken other than to ask after the prince’s wants and needs. Arthur was actually starting to find it a bit annoying.

“No, I’m fine,” he said, then impulsively asked, “What’s your name?”

The boy flicked a startled glance at Arthur, then looked down again as he said softly, “It’s Darren, Sire.”

“Darren. Good. I was growing tired of thinking of you as ‘boy’.”

A hint of a smile played about Darren’s mouth but it quickly disappeared. He probably thought it wasn’t appropriate to be amused in the prince’s presence. “Shall I take the last cart back to the city, Sire?”

Arthur glanced over to where the lone remaining cart horse, a chestnut mare, was grazing on a rare patch of grassy ground. She and the other horses had nibbled it down to stubble, eager to devour the splotches of clover that had also been there, but she seemed determined to leave nothing but bare earth behind. Arthur’s horse had eaten his fill some time ago and was standing to the side, content to let her have what was left, which was probably wise of him because she’d been perfectly willing to push and even bite the others if they tried to nose into her bit of grass.

“You can go ahead and hitch her up,” Arthur said, “but don’t leave yet. The men can have a ride back to the city. They’ve certainly earned it.”

“Yes, Sire,” Darren replied with another one of his bows, not just with his head but with his entire upper body. It was an obeisance much more pronounced than what Arthur was used to receiving from Merlin, on those occasions when his servant deigned to show conventional respect. He considered telling Darren he needn’t be so formal outside of the city gates, but upon further reflection, he determined that matters were probably best left as they were, so as to not cause any further awkwardness. Rare was the soul who dared to be as brash with him as Merlin, and in all honesty, Arthur preferred to reserve his acceptance of such casual behavior to a rare few whom he knew well. He’d never laid eyes on this boy before today and might never do so again.

He couldn’t quite bring himself to dismiss Darren entirely, though. There was an odd lilt to his voice that wasn’t familiar to Arthur, indicating that he’d either come from some isolated corner of the kingdom or from someplace entirely outside of it. He also seemed to have an affinity for horses, judging from the way he’d deftly handled the two he’d already hitched to their carts and taken back to the city. Arthur wondered what the boy would make of the remaining mare with her willful stubbornness.

He watched with idle curiosity as Darren set the bucket of water down and went over to the cart horse. She tried to nip at him, but he pushed her head away and began to stroke her neck, leaning against her side and murmuring to her. Amazingly, she lifted her head to nose at him, then went with him to the cart with no more guidance than a hand on her withers. He handled the tack easily and confidently, and the horse behaved very well for him, apart from a protesting toss of her head when he slipped the harness over.

He gave the horse a final pat on the neck and then returned to Arthur’s side, his eyes lowered once more. “Is there anything else I can do, Sire?”

“Yes, there is. You can tell me how it is you learned to work so well with horses.”

Once again, Darren seemed surprised at the interest and looked up swiftly, but quickly averted his eyes. He answered with a faintly wistful tone in his voice. “My father was a horse breeder, Sire.”

“Was?” Arthur asked, noting the past tense. He wondered if the man had died or had experienced some kind of unfortunate reversal in his life. Or perhaps there were simply too many sons to gainfully employ in the family business.

“His prize stud unexpectedly took ill and died.” Darren’s gaze was distant as he spoke, as if he were looking back into long-ago memories. “The horse had always been strong and healthy. It was a blow from which my father struggled to recover. My family fell on hard times after that, so I undertook the journey to Camelot in search of gainful employment.”

There was a strangeness to his reply, not only because of its length – it was the greatest number of words Arthur had heard him string together in succession – but also because of the diction. He sounded every bit like a lord addressing the king in council. Arthur frowned for a moment, then reminded himself that horse breeders often had close ties to nobility. He wondered if he might know of this family by name or reputation, but he didn’t have the opportunity to ask. His thoughts and the conversation were interrupted by a sharp cry of pain from the direction of the fire, followed by someone shouting Merlin’s name.

Arthur’s head jerked automatically toward the commotion, and he quickly located his servant, hunched over on his knees, clutching at his injured arm. That was all Arthur needed to see to go running down the slope to find out what was wrong, even though one of the other servants was already at Merlin’s side.

By the time Arthur arrived, Merlin was no longer holding his arm, even though it was obviously bleeding quite heavily. A large patch of his sleeve was soaked through and the blood had run down his arm inside his shirt and was dripping from his fingers to the ground. Arthur had no idea how the wound he’d seen on Merlin’s arm that morning could possibly be bleeding so much, but even more bizarre was the fact that Merlin was insisting that no one touch his arm. Did the idiot not understand that losing blood was a _bad_ thing?

Arthur dropped to his knees in front of Merlin, who had now fallen silent. His eyes were closed, his face drained of color to the point that his lips were nearly as pale as his skin, and he was rocking slightly back and forth.

“Merlin,” Arthur said firmly as he laid a hand on the uninjured shoulder. Merlin flinched but didn’t speak or make any other movement. “We need to get that bleeding stopped. We can’t very well do that without touching you.”

“You’ll make it worse,” Merlin said with a gasp, then reached across and grabbed the lower part of his wounded arm and pulled it slowly across his thighs.

“All right,” Arthur said slowly and calmly, feeling as though he were trying to settle a frightened animal that might bolt at any minute. “But it seems to me it’s already worse than it was.”

“That’s because I touched it,” Merlin practically growled, and he finally opened his eyes and looked at Arthur. There was pain there, of course, but also exasperation and a liberal helping of barely restrained panic.

“That’s ridiculous, Merlin,” he replied, a bit more sharply than he’d intended, but the idiot wasn’t making any sense. “Wounds don’t get worse just from being touched.”

“I _know_ that, you condescending, obnoxious prat. This isn’t a normal wound.”

Arthur was momentarily distracted by the insult. Merlin didn’t often put adjectives in front of ‘prat,’ and now he’d used two of them, and large ones at that. Then he had to fight the urge to hit himself upside of his head for his stupidity. Of _course_ it wasn’t a normal wound. It had come from a sword Gaius had said was likely magical, never mind the creature that had inflicted the injury. Now _he_ was the one trying not to panic, and he felt like he might just scream because no one had bothered to warn him this might happen, and what the _hell_ was he supposed to do about it?


	6. Life and Death

“Could you _please_ just get me away from the fire?” Merlin asked plaintively as his eyes slid closed. “I think I’m about to faint.” His breathing had gotten quicker and shallower, and Arthur could feel slight tremors in the shoulder under his hand. Part of him wanted to insist they do something immediately to stop the bleeding, but the only option that occurred to him was applying pressure to the wound, and apparently that would only make the situation worse. Maybe it would stop bleeding of its own accord. It wasn’t exactly gushing blood, but still, it was flowing well enough to make a disturbing pattern of splattered drops on the stony ground.

Arthur stared at the bright red splotches of blood for a moment, then shook his head sharply. It was so blasted hot here he could barely think straight. That was what was addling his wits, obviously. It was just the heat slowing his reactions. It wasn’t that he had the sudden, nauseating thought that he might have to watch Merlin slowly bleed to death because of a ridiculous scratch of a wound that was now compounded by sorcery and had become something far more worrisome. How on earth had the workers put up with this for hours on end? Moving somewhere cooler seemed like an excellent idea.

He glanced up to see who could help him, but the other three fire-tenders had drawn back into a tight group and were muttering amongst themselves. They looked frightened, and Arthur had a feeling it wasn’t just because someone was hurt. They must have interpreted “not a normal wound” as one caused by magic, and understandably wanted to distance themselves from that. It wasn’t the first time Arthur had encountered an inconvenient side effect of his father’s hatred of magic.

“Never mind,” he muttered as he shifted around to Merlin’s side. “I’ll do it myself.” At least he now had a goal, albeit a minor and intermediate one. Move Merlin away from the fire. Simple enough. He tried not to think beyond that for the time being.

He had to tug a bit to get Merlin to let go of his wounded arm, which resulted in the hand sliding off his thigh and thudding against the ground. The sudden jarring of the limb caused Merlin’s eyes to snap open as he tried to choke back a yelp of pain. He was only partially successful.

Arthur ignored the strangled sound and instead focused on ducking his head under Merlin’s uninjured arm, then reaching across his servant’s back and wrapping his fingers around the far side, being careful to keep his hand underneath the damaged limb. He took a deep breath and started to heave both of them to their feet. Merlin managed to help a bit after he’d been lifted up far enough that he could pull his feet out from under himself and get them flat on the ground. Once they were upright, though, Arthur wasn’t sure which way to go other than away from the fire. He just stood there, looking around and trying to decide which route out of the rocky depression would be easiest, or even where it would be best to end up.

“Over there, Sire, by the cart. The ground’s smooth and there’s a bit of shade.” It was Darren. He touched Arthur lightly on the shoulder and pointed. There was indeed some even ground in the shadow of the cart. Arthur sighed in relief. It was good to have someone else to hand who didn’t seem to be afraid of what was going on, or at least was able to put his apprehension aside well enough to be practical.

Arthur nodded his agreement, then turned his concentration to steering himself and his stumbling servant towards the cart. He tried to pay as little attention as possible to what the others were doing, or more frustratingly, not doing. Part of him wanted to yell at them for being useless, but he reminded himself that given Uther’s extreme intolerance of magic, it was actually surprising they hadn’t simply run away.

Darren was already waiting when they reached their destination. He’d taken a piece of the rough, heavyweight fabric that had been used to cover the firewood in the carts and had folded it over on itself a couple of times to form a makeshift pallet. Arthur began to lower Merlin towards the ground, mindful of not jostling his servant’s wounded arm. Merlin, for his part, gave no more reaction than a slight groan followed by a long exhalation of breath as he was settled to the ground. His eyes were only partially open, leaving it questionable as to whether he was even maintaining a full grasp on consciousness.

Arthur had virtually no opportunity to worry about Merlin’s state of awareness, though, or even wonder what to do next, because Darren had already knelt at Merlin’s side, holding a small knife in his hand. It was a simple tool with a rough handle and worn blade, but Arthur could see that the edge was nonetheless well-honed. More importantly and alarmingly, it was aimed at Merlin’s arm.

Arthur reacted instinctively, reaching across to grab both of Darren’s wrists and squeezing so tightly he was amazed the boy was able to keep the knife in his hand. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked in a low and deadly voice, the sort he used when dire consequences were hanging in the balance.

Darren glared at him fiercely, and Arthur was taken aback at the fire and determination blazing in the eyes of someone who had previously seemed so meek and mild. He tightened his grip further, almost reflexively, because the expression on Darren’s face was a challenge, daring anyone to try and stop him from what he was doing. Still the dagger remained tightly clutched in his fist, as if he didn’t feel the pressure on his wrists at all, but then the tension in his body abated. He spread the fingers of his free hand wide in a gesture of surrender.

“I have no intention of harming him, Arthur Pendragon,” he said in a voice that was almost gentle. The burning intensity of his gaze had softened somewhat as well. The sudden change of demeanor did little to assuage Arthur’s unease, but then the boy added, “I can help him. I’ve seen this before. I know what to do.”

There was great earnestness and determination in his expression now, and for some reason Arthur couldn’t quite fathom, he found he believed the boy. He hesitated a moment longer, though, the distrust of magic his father had instilled in him from his earliest recollection making him pause. He could only assume that Darren meant to use magic. What other way could there be to heal such a wound? But then Arthur glanced down at Merlin’s ashen face and instantly knew that upholding the law and allowing Merlin to die as a result was something he could not in good conscience do. The saving of innocent life was a law unto itself, beyond the rule of any man. He let go of Darren and nodded, giving silent permission to do what needed to be done.

“Thank you,” Darren said softly, the gratitude genuine. It seemed to matter to him what happened to Merlin. That in itself was enough for Arthur to grant him a measure of trust.

Darren said nothing further, instead returning his full attention to Merlin, who was unnaturally still and silent, his eyes now completely closed, the slight rise and fall of his chest the only evidence that life was still in him. Arthur pulled his attention away from the signs of failing health and instead focused on Darren, watching in apprehension as the boy used his knife to swiftly and surely make a small cut in the cuff of Merlin’s sleeve. Then he grasped the fabric with both hands and tore it all the way up to the shoulder, revealing a soaked piece of red cloth that Arthur only knew had once been a white piece of linen because he’d seen Gaius wrap Merlin’s arm with it earlier in the day.

He swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat and glanced up at Darren. Surely this would be when it happened, strange words uttered in a low voice and eyes glowing unnaturally gold. Darren said nothing, though, and his eyes remained unchanged. His swift and certain hands were doing something that was completely mundane as far as Arthur could tell, pulling three strips of fabric from the length of Merlin’s ruined sleeve and then tying one of them firmly around the upper arm above the wound. Darren’s ministrations were gentle, but the manipulation of the limb was apparently enough to rouse Merlin back into marginal awareness. He blinked several times and frowned at Darren before muttering, “What are you doing?”

“Buying you some time,” Darren replied, keeping his attention firmly on his work as he reached into the pocket of his breeches and pulled out a short stick. He laid the stick across the knot he’d already made, tied the cloth over the top, and then twisted the bit of wood slowly and carefully around to cinch the band of fabric tighter. Arthur realized with some confusion that far from using a spell to heal Merlin, Darren was simply applying a tourniquet to halt the bleeding. Arthur had seen such a thing done a handful of times to soldiers direly wounded in battle. Death or the loss of the injured limb had always followed in his experience, although he’d been told those results could sometimes be avoided. He fervently hoped this was one of those times.

Merlin winced at the increasing pressure on his arm and gasped out, “There’s no point. There’s no cure for this.” His eyes were filled with bitter anguish, but there was also an underlying current of painful resignation. It seemed he had already decided his death was inevitable.

Arthur was nearly overwhelmed by a sudden surge of anger. How _dare_ Merlin give up. They always managed to somehow emerge from situations like this relatively unscathed, no matter how grim the situation seemed. Only the previous day they’d defeated a band of undead knights and released the entire city from the grip of a spell that had imprisoned every inhabitant in sleep. They’d saved everyone, every last soul but Morgana, and Arthur wasn’t about to lose someone else now, not from a damned wound that had started as the barest of grazes, had already been stitched and bandaged, and had absolutely no business breaking open and bleeding again.

“You are _not_ going to die, Merlin,” Arthur said, fighting to keep his voice steady. He had to work to quell the fear that was churning in his guts, mixing with the anger and leaving a catch in his voice. “I forbid it.”

“You don’t have the power over life and death, Arthur,” Merlin replied quietly, a distant and troubled look in his eyes. “And even if you did, I wouldn’t want you to use it for me.”

There seemed to be far more meaning in his words than Arthur could fathom, which only served to unsettle him further. He did _not_ like feeling helpless or confused, and right now, he was both.

“It doesn’t matter what you want,” he said gruffly, regretting the words as soon as he said them, if only for the implication that Merlin was a servant and had no say in what happened to him. Merlin flinched a bit, but didn’t make a reply. He simply blinked a few times, his expression settling into something wistful and sad. He should be making some sort of pithy retort, or at least calling Arthur one of several possible impertinent names, if not outright arguing.

Arthur frowned for a moment, wondering why Merlin was being so passive, but then he realized it might have to do with not wanting to leave angry words behind as a final memory. He couldn’t bear to let his thoughts wander any further down that road, so he turned instead to Darren, who was completing the tourniquet by securing the stick with another band of cloth tied around Merlin’s arm. He then lifted the injured limb, carefully bent it at the elbow and laid the forearm over Merlin’s chest.

Arthur drew a deep but quiet breath and let it out slowly. Now that the immediate danger to Merlin’s life was abated, he thought that surely magic would come into play somehow. He morbidly wondered if Darren would have to actually touch the wound and had to suppress a shudder at the thought of the pain that would cause Merlin, not to mention the flesh of the arm being further torn asunder before it could be knitted together again.

His eyes flicked involuntarily to Merlin’s face, and he saw that far from appearing fearful or even apprehensive, his servant was staring inscrutably at Darren, as if he were trying to puzzle something out, heedless of what might be about to happen to him. All that Darren was currently doing, though, was forming a makeshift sling with the final strip of torn fabric, winding the cloth twice around Merlin’s wrist and looping it around his neck before knotting the ends. The length of the sling was quite short, bringing Merlin’s hand up to the middle of his chest, over his heart.

As Darren completed his task, Merlin abruptly sucked in a sharp breath and his eyelids fluttered closed. In a moment of panic, Arthur’s eyes darted to Merlin’s arm to see if the wound had somehow gotten worse, but the bandage at least looked the same as it had, soaked through with blood but no more saturated than before. Arthur had no idea what had caused Merlin’s sudden reaction, unless it was simply a surge of pain, but then a hard shudder wracked his body and he began to shiver, a deep sort of trembling that set his breath to stuttering.

Arthur laid a hand on Merlin’s good shoulder and gave what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze. The shivering was certainly worrisome, but Arthur had seen that in wounded men before. Something to do with shock and blood loss. Merlin’s clothing was damp with sweat as well, which was probably doing an overly efficient job of cooling him now that he was away from the fire and up where the breeze was blowing freely.

This had gone on long enough. Merlin needed help beyond bandages and other commonplace remedies, and he needed it sooner rather than later.

“Why are you bothering with all of this?” Arthur asked Darren impatiently, waving his hand vaguely in the direction of the tourniquet and sling. “I thought you were going to heal him.”

Darren sat back on his heels and looked at Arthur sadly. “That I cannot do,” he said with a slight shake of his head. “I can only tell you how.”

Arthur stared blankly for a moment. What was _he_ supposed to do? He obviously wasn’t a sorcerer and knew very little about magic beyond what his father had taught him, which was certainly of no use in this case since it would have Darren set upon a pyre. Perhaps the cure in this case was something akin to when Nimue had poisoned Merlin and a particular rare flower was needed to save him. He gave a sharp nod. “What do I need to do?” His words carried the conviction of one who has already decided to go to whatever ends were required. He’d done it before when he’d barely known Merlin. There was no question he would do so again now.

“The wound must be cauterized,” Darren replied, his voice calm and even, as if he were discussing the weather and not talking about laying a glowing hot iron to Merlin’s arm. “But it must be done with the sword that inflicted the original wound, or one of its kin. You must use one of the Swords of Medhir.”

A river of ice went spilling through Arthur’s guts. A stray part of his mind wondered how Darren had come to know the circumstances of how Merlin had received his wound. And it was strange beyond reckoning that the boy would happen to know the precise cure that was needed for this specific injury. But infinitely more important was the fact that if what Darren said was true, the only way to save Merlin’s life hinged on using one of the swords Arthur himself had ordered melted down. And he’d sent Gwen to help do the job more quickly with her knowledge of blacksmithing gained while helping to tend her father’s forge. They needed a sword that very well might not exist any longer.

Darren was peering at him intently, apparently reading in Arthur’s expression that something was horribly wrong. “You must have taken the swords and put them aside somewhere,” he said slowly. “They weren’t with the bodies when they were brought here.”

“They’re at the forge in the city,” Arthur replied numbly. “I was told they were magical in nature. They’re being melted down right now.” He vaguely noted that Merlin hadn’t made a sound in reaction to any of this startling and bewildering information. He must have fallen unconscious, no longer aware of the precariousness of his fate.

“No,” Darren whispered, disbelief and denial evident in his voice. “No, that can’t be. I can still...” He trailed off, though, and whatever he had been about to say was lost in urgency as he reached over and gripped Arthur’s forearm. “Listen to me carefully,” he said, but when Arthur didn’t reply immediately, lost in self-recrimination at his hasty actions in ordering the swords destroyed, Darren shook him by the arm. “Please, Arthur. Listen to me.”

The voice was soft and gentle, but with an odd firmness and a trace of command. Arthur responded to the tone and the words almost without thinking. He nodded, fixing his attention on Darren and steadfastly trying to convince himself that there was still a way for this to end with life and not another loss. There had been too much sacrificed to Morgause already. Arthur refused for Merlin to be added to the tally.

“The swords cannot have all been destroyed,” Darren said with what seemed absolute certainty. “There is still time, but we must act quickly. We need to get Merlin loaded into the cart so he can be taken directly to the smithy.”

“I’ll take him on my horse. That will take far less time than a cart,” Arthur replied, even as part of him persisted in wondering how Darren could seem so utterly convinced that at least one of the swords was still intact. Perhaps the boy was simply choosing to believe rather than be mired in despair. Arthur decided to follow his lead. He could not allow himself to consider the alternative.

Darren shook his head as he let go of Arthur’s arm. “He needs to be kept as still as possible. Taking him on horseback is too risky, and careful watch needs to be kept on his fingers. If they start to acquire a bluish tinge, the tourniquet will need to be loosened and the wound allowed to bleed until the color returns. The blood loss for those few moments won’t be significant enough to further endanger his life, but it might make all the difference in saving his arm. Stay with him. I’ll get the men to help load him into the cart.”

Darren didn’t wait for any kind of reply. He stood and ran back down into the depression where the pyre was slowly burning out before Arthur could even finish processing everything he’d just been told. It wasn’t until he saw his horse stretched out at a full run with Darren on its back that he realized why he’d been given such detailed instructions on the care of Merlin’s arm. Darren hadn’t intended on accompanying Merlin back to the city.

Arthur rose to his feet, anger surging in him. How dare the boy take his horse without so much as asking permission? His indignation was quickly set aside, though, in place of awe at the skill of Darren’s riding without even a scrap of tack on the horse. That had all been left behind in his apparent haste. It didn’t seem to matter, though. Darren’s hands were tangled in the mane as if it were reins, and his knees were slightly bent, his legs pressed lightly against the sides of the horse. He was leaning slightly forwards, the wind full in his face, and there was a strange sort of joy in his expression, as if he hadn’t felt so free in a very long time.

Arthur’s fascination with the display of horsemanship quickly faded, though. He couldn’t understand why Darren felt the need to ride ahead, and at such a stunning pace.  Perhaps he had a blind hope that he could save one of the swords from the forge, but really, that was stupidity because Arthur would’ve been far better suited for that task, while Darren should’ve stayed with Merlin. The guards and the blacksmith were hardly going to listen to the protests of a stranger, and a scrawny boy at that. Gwen might, though. She had an instinct for the right and the true.

There was no more time for wondering or worrying, though, as two of the three men who had been helping with the fire arrived at the cart. They were a mismatched pair, one middle-aged and weathered with white-blond hair, the other young with a ruffled mess of dark hair. Arthur recalled they were the two who had been helping Merlin stir and shift the fire. Where the final man was, the one who’d been using the bellows, Arthur didn’t know and quite frankly didn’t care. He’d probably scarpered at the prospect of having anything more to do with magic.

The two men that remained were quite enough to lift Merlin, and immediately set about doing so under Arthur’s careful watch and deadly admonition not to disturb the wounded arm. The younger man hooked his hands under Merlin’s knees on the injured side, while the elder slid his arms carefully under Merlin’s back and head from the opposite side. Now Arthur saw the necessity of the sling as it kept Merlin’s arm relatively still and out of the way.

Merlin stirred a bit and muttered something unintelligible as he was lifted from the ground, but Arthur firmly told him to be still and quiet until he was transferred into the cart. Thankfully he obeyed without protest, at least as best as he could with intermittent shivers still running through his body.

Arthur hopped up into the bed of the cart and fussed a bit with the heavy piece of canvas still there until he’d fashioned what he hoped was a reasonably comfortable bed to settle Merlin onto for the ride back to the city. He gave word that he was ready, then watched with a bit of wonder as the two rough and obviously strong men handled their charge with surprising gentleness, easing Merlin into the cart and laying him on the rough pallet.

Merlin’s breathing had quickened during his relocation, but now he let out a long sigh and his body went limp, the tremors quickly abating. The sudden and unexpected change worried Arthur, so he knelt and spread his fingers flat against Merlin’s chest, just below where Merlin’s hand was bound. He was still breathing, albeit shallowly, still horribly pale under smudges of soot, although not deathly so, and the tourniquet seemed to be doing its job. Then Arthur recalled that the canvas had been warmed by the sun shining down into the cart and must feel wonderful to Merlin’s chilled and aching body.

“Here, Sire, this might help keep 'im warm," said the older man as he clambered into the cart and spread Merlin's jacket over his legs. "Didn't want it to get left behind. I expect he'll be wanting it later."

Arthur stared at the worn and faded brown fabric for a moment before he said, rather awkwardly, "Ah. Yes. I'm sure he will."

“Sorry about how I was afore,” the man added with a contrite expression on his face. “I was scared, you see, but I have a son about his age, and Jarrith there said to me that young Merlin reminded him of his brother, and neither of us would want them to come to harm or not be cared for because of something that weren’t none of their fault.”

“I understand,” Arthur replied, and he did, really, despite his earlier anger and frustration.

The man nodded and gave Merlin one last look, an uncomfortably sad and worried one,  before he climbed back out of the cart.

“Wait,” Arthur said on impulse, perhaps wanting to somehow show gratitude to this man who apparently had some care for Merlin, enough to at least temporarily overcome his fear of magic. “You’re welcome to ride back to the city with us, umm... I’m sorry. I don’t know your name.”

“No reason you should, Sire,” the man answered with a dip of the head, “but it’s Bowen. And thank you kindly for the offer, but I live round the other side of the city from where you’ll be going. I’ll get there quicker if I walk. Jarrith’ll see you safe to the forge. He don’t talk much, but he’s a right good carter. Knows the road like the back of his hand. He’ll get you there quick as anyone and with a smoother ride than most.”

Arthur turned and saw that Jarrith was already seated on the driver’s bench, reins in hand. He was looking back at Arthur, presumably waiting for the prince’s cue to depart. He did bear somewhat of a resemblance to Merlin due to his dark hair and pale blue eyes, and his fingers were long and seemed to have some grace to them judging by the way he held the reins loosely in a relaxed grasp. His skin was browned by the sun, though, his build a good deal bulkier across the shoulders, and if he was a generally quiet person, then the similarities ended there.

Arthur settled himself into a sitting position next to Merlin so he could keep a careful watch on his servant’s fingers, as Darren had instructed. For some reason, the thought of Merlin deprived of a limb was nearly as horrible to Arthur as the thought of Merlin dead. Hopefully Merlin’s seemingly innate good luck would hold and there would be a sword left to save him, presuming Darren was right about the nature of the curse affecting the wound and the method of countering it. So many factors out of Arthur’s control. He would simply have to believe in good fortune and the care of others. He gave a nod to Jarrith, who clucked to the horses and shook the reins a bit, and they were off with barely a jolt.


	7. Fortune

Gwen sighed in relief as she stepped out of the overheated confines of the royal forge and into the clear, cool air outside. It had been a long time since she’d tended fire for a blacksmith, and this wasn’t her father’s forge – that had remained cold and silent since he’d died – but she’d been able to provide a few insights to Simon on ways to sustain and increase the heat of the fire. He’d seemed a bit embarrassed when she’d first arrived dressed in tunic, trousers and boots, but he’d been sent orders from Arthur and so he’d welcomed her politely into the forge. He’d listened to her attentively and courteously and was surprised and perhaps a bit impressed when her suggestions  worked, but then he was new to Camelot and hadn’t been aware of what a fine blacksmith her father had been.

She’d only ever briefly been in either of the royal smithies before – both this one used for weapons and armor and the second one by the stables where horseshoes and tack were made and mended – but in essence, one forge was much like another. It had been bittersweet to feel once again the heat of the intense fire prickling her skin and to see the sparks struck from the anvil, and the glow of the coals and smell of hot metal had brought back a flood of memories. There had been tears in her eyes at one point, but if Simon had seen them, he hadn’t commented, or perhaps dismissed them as the result of heat or ash.

The work had been frustratingly slow, the atmosphere of the place made even more tense by the scrutinizing gaze of the pair of guards who had been tasked with ensuring all six of the swords went into the fire. Gwen had never seen a weapon nor any kind of metal object so resistant to alteration. The blades had heated and glowed bright orange readily enough, but they hadn’t shown any signs of melting and had seemed to be impervious to the hammer when Simon had attempted to at least alter their shape to something less like a sword. Even the hilts had been so well-tempered that they’d been almost completely unaffected by any attempts to unmake them.

Then a few hours ago, early in the afternoon, the metal had inexplicably begun to give way to the combination of heat and Simon’s strength, the blades flattening and becoming blunt. Simon had left one of the swords thrust into the forge as he’d worked on another, and then there’d been a startling clang as the hilt fell to the floor. The blade had vanished, as if the heat had turned it to fume, although there had been no sign or scent of vaporized metal hanging in the air. Simon had picked up the hilt and inspected it carefully, then tossed it atop the coals, where it had lain softly shining for a few moments before it shattered in a shower of sparks. The resultant fragments had quickly melted and then disappeared entirely. From that point onwards, the swords had slowly given way, first blunted by Simon’s hammer, then given to the fire for the final unmaking. Only one now remained, sheathed in coals, waiting for the heat to burn away the vestiges of whatever strange force was holding it together.

Gwen pulled off the sooty gloves she’d borrowed from Simon and dragged the back of her hand across her sweaty brow. She turned her face to the steady breeze that was blowing across the courtyard outside the forge, glad to be done with the task Arthur had set for her. She still had a goodly amount of more commonplace work to do before the day was ended. Most importantly, to her at least, there was Merlin’s shirt yet to be mended so it could be washed and hung to dry overnight. She didn’t think Merlin owned more than two, perhaps three shirts, and after a long afternoon of tending the pyre for the Knights of Medhir, she figured he’d be glad of a clean shirt in the morning. It suddenly occurred to her that Merlin’s jacket must’ve been damaged as well when he was injured. Perhaps she could get to Gaius’s chambers before Merlin returned and fetch the jacket before he had a chance to protest.

She was just about to go back into the forge to return the gloves to Simon when she heard shouting and the clattering of hooves running fast over cobbles. She turned back to the courtyard, peering intently past the barracks and armory situated on either side. She wondered what could be so urgent that a rider would be going at such a pace and apparently heedless of anyone calling out to him, then frowned in confusion as she caught sight of Arthur’s horse entering the area with a rider that definitely wasn’t Arthur. A gangly boy in peasant’s clothing was astride the animal, riding without a saddle or any other tack.

He slowed the horse as it crossed the courtyard, bringing it to a stop next to Gwen. She watched dumbly, her heart speeding her to the conclusion that something must have happened to Arthur and the boy had been sent as a messenger. But then why would he be here at the smithy and not seeking Gaius or Uther at the citadel instead?

“Is this the royal forge, my lady?” he asked breathlessly, his cheeks flushed by exertion. The horse was similarly affected by what must’ve have been a hard run, its sides heaving and its coat glistening with sweat.

She barely registered his question in her growing concern, giving only a cursory nod in reply before asking in an unsteady voice, “Where is Prince Arthur? Has he been harmed?”

“No, my lady,” the boy said as he slid down from the horse’s back. “He is safe and headed for the city even now.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” she said, laying a hand to her chest.

“But his servant has been gravely injured,” the boy added.

“Merlin?” Gwen asked faintly, her relief at Arthur’s safety tumbled over by a new surge of worry and fear. “What’s happened to Merlin?”

“A curse, my lady, and one of the Swords of Medhir is needed to counter it.” He took her by the arms as he spoke and looked beseechingly at her. “Please. Are they here?”

She might’ve staggered or fallen if he hadn’t been holding her steady. “They’re all but gone,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper. “The last one is in the forge even now.”

Shock and denial were plain upon his face as his gaze darted over her shoulder, into the smithy behind her. He abruptly let go of her and brushed past, leaving her to stumble a few steps before she regained her balance. She took a deep breath and followed him, only to have her heart seize when she entered the forge and saw Simon tossing a hilt onto the coals. The blade was nowhere to be seen.

“No!” the boy howled in an anguished voice as he ran towards the forge. He was reaching for the blazing coals when Simon caught him in a strong grip and held him back.

“What are you doing, you fool?” Simon shouted. “Do you want to burn your hand from your body? There’s heat enough there to melt steel!”

“Let me go,” the boy demanded, struggling fiercely to free himself, “or I’ll see you hanged!”

Gwen was shocked at hearing such a thing from a peasant, and the authority that rang in his immature voice was uncanny. Simon reacted to the words and tone, instantly releasing the boy and then immediately looking confused and chagrined. The guards had stepped forward in response to the commotion, beginning to draw their swords, but Simon held out his hand to them. The boy had turned away, his chest heaving and his hands clenching into fists, but he since he was making no further moves towards the forge, the guards subsided, although they remained watchful.

In the forge, the hilt of the sword sparked and shattered upon the coals as the others had done before. There was a long moment of stillness and silence, during which Gwen fought tears and hopelessness. If what the boy had said about the swords was true, then Merlin may have just been condemned to some horrible fate. And she had played her part in it.

“What is it you wanted with that sword hilt?” Simon asked cautiously, as if he thought he might spook the boy into running away. Perhaps he would at that. He seemed to be staring at nothing at all, a look of desperation on his face.

“It’s nothing to do with me, at least not any longer,” the boy muttered in reply. “The prince had need of it.” But then his breath caught and he squeezed his eyes shut, turning his head to the side. He almost seemed to be listening.

“What?” Gwen found herself asking. “What is it?”

He didn’t reply but opened his eyes and walked over to her with a few swift steps. For one who had been so emotionally overwrought only moments ago, he now seemed calm and collected, his expression determined. “My lady,” he said in a quiet and blessedly steady voice. Oh, how she needed that right now. “May I speak with you a moment?”

“Of course,” she said without pausing to consider, although she wondered what she could possibly do to amend the situation.

“Outside, if you please,” he said, then added a bit more loudly. “The heat in here is making me feel lightheaded after such a ride as I have had.”

She felt there was something not entirely honest about that last comment, but her instincts told her that it was merely meant as a plausible enough reason to go outside and thus to leave Simon and the guards further out of earshot. She hesitated for only a moment before she nodded. He so desperately wanted to help Merlin that he’d nearly thrust his hand into a red-hot forge. She could certainly listen to whatever he had to say. Perhaps there was still a way to save Merlin and he needed her help to accomplish it for some reason. She took strength from that thought and hoped it wouldn’t prove to be unfounded.

She flicked a quick look towards the blacksmith and forced a smile. “It’s all right, Simon,” she said and was surprised at how steady her voice sounded. “I’ll only be a moment.” Then she turned and followed the boy out of the forge.

He led her to the side of the door where they couldn’t be seen from within, then glanced around to make sure no one else was in the courtyard. It was still too early in the afternoon for most of the soldiers to be done with their duties, so at the moment, the place was deserted. Once the boy had ascertained they were alone, he leaned towards her and said in barely more than a whisper, “How many swords were destroyed in the forge?”

“Six,” she replied with a frown on her face, wondering why that was relevant.

“There were seven knights,” he said, his voice urgent. “Seven swords. That means one is missing. I’m going to try and find it.”

The surge of hope she felt at hearing there was a sword that might yet heal Merlin was abruptly swamped by the thought of one boy trying to locate a single sword in all of the city. “But how can you possibly...”

She trailed off as he reached out and laid a hand upon her cheek. His fingers were rough and surprisingly cool. “Do not despair, my lady,” he said with a strangely wistful look on his face. “That is my lot in life, not yours. But for Merlin, I will set it aside. I believe with all my heart that he is the reason I am here, and I will not fail him.”

She didn’t know what to say to that so she simply nodded. It occurred to her that she should probably correct him for addressing her as a lady or perhaps express some offense at being treated so intimately, but then she firmly told herself it didn’t matter, not when Merlin was hurt.

The boy dropped his hand and smiled faintly before he stepped back towards the doorway and said in a much louder voice than he had been using, “Prince Arthur is bringing Merlin here. They will arrive soon. Merlin’s wound will need to be cauterized. Is there a physician in the city?”

“Yes, the court physician. His name is Gaius. His quarters are in the citadel,” she replied in a clear voice, following his lead. He was obviously trying to provide an explanation to those in the forge for why he’d needed to speak to her and the reason for his departure. Even as she spoke, though, she could feel bile rising at the back of her throat at the thought of Merlin being subjected to cautery. She’d seen it done before in her father’s forge. She’d been shooed away, but she’d peeked through a crack in the wall out of morbid curiosity. “I’ll go and fetch him,” she said with a slight rasp in her voice. At least this was something practical she could do instead of waiting and worrying, dwelling on memories of screaming and the smell of burnt flesh.

“No, I’ll do it,” he said quickly. “I have other business to see to in that direction.”

Part of her wanted to protest, but she didn’t want to do anything to upset what seemed such a precarious balance of fortune. “Very well,” she said.

The boy nodded briskly, then turned and jogged towards the horse, who had wandered a bit but had surprisingly stayed nearby instead of making his way back to the stables in search of food as he had been known to do when left unattended. The boy leapt easily up onto the horse’s back, and they were gone in a rush of wind and the swift clicking of hooves gathering speed.

*****

Gaius had spent the better part of the late morning and early afternoon tending to the mostly imagined ailments of those convinced they were still suffering from the effects of the sleeping sickness. There were many who unsurprisingly complained of insomnia, which Gaius assured them would resolve that evening, and if not to return to him the next day. A pair of fretful noblewomen who had heard gossip that dark sorcery was involved came to him convinced that they were somehow still cursed. He sent them off with sedative potions to calm their nerves. There was one young man from the lower town who actually did have a fever and vomited on Gaius’s floor. That one was given a pouch of dried herbs to brew into a tisane to calm his unsettled stomach.

After he’d ruefully cleaned up the mess from his last patient, Gaius made himself a cup of tea and settled back down to his research concerning the effects of magical weapons. He’d been periodically flipping through books and shuffling pieces of parchment during the times when he hadn’t been occupied with patients. It didn’t sit well with him that he hadn’t been able to find a way to deal with the Lifeblood Curse should it come into play, at least nothing that didn’t have to do with maiming or a mercy killing. He’d already looked in most of the most obvious and relevant places, though, as well as searching through stacks of only marginally related material. He had an inexplicable feeling that there was either no answer to be found or not enough time to discover it.

He pulled a heavy tome that he had yet to review across the desk and opened it to a page marked with a piece of parchment. It was an account of the Knights of Medhir that Geoffrey had only just found in the royal library and brought to him. The book itself was mostly to do with the history of warfare, which was likely how it had been overlooked and escaped being destroyed during the Purge. Not for the first time Gaius felt frustration with Uther for all the books and manuscripts that had been burned to ashes. He supposed he should be grateful for what he’d managed to salvage for his personal library, although everything down to the last scrap of parchment had been reviewed before he’d been allowed to keep it. His personal spell book had been, of course, the only exception. He briefly wondered what would have happened to him if it had been discovered. The book would have been burned, surely, but would it have been enough for Uther to break their pact and sentence him to death?

Gaius’s thoughts were interrupted by his door being thrown open and slamming against the wall. He turned with an admonishment on his tongue but the words went unspoken as he saw that the boy standing in the open doorway was out of breath, his expression serious and determined.

“What is it?” Gaius asked with a sigh as he stood and beckoned the boy to come into the chamber. He was a bit annoyed at being diverted from his reading. “Tell me quickly. I’m very busy, as you can see.”

The boy simply stared at him a moment, flicked an odd look towards the back of the room, then returned his attention to Gaius. “Are you the physician, sir?” he asked instead of answering Gaius’s question.

“Of course I am. Who else would I be?” Gaius replied rather snappishly.

“Then you’re needed at the forge, sir,” the boy replied. “There’s a man who’s been badly hurt.” He paused and shook his head quickly before he added, “No, more than that. He’s been cursed. Something called the Lifeblood Curse.”

“Merlin,” Gaius whispered as he reached behind him, fingers blindly scrabbling for his stool. A chill crept up his spine and down his arms, making an unpleasant counterpoint to the warmth that suddenly flushed his face. He had to fight the urge to slam his fist down on his desk. He should have found an answer. It had been his responsibility, and he’d failed. Now Merlin would pay the price.

“Yes,” the boy answered with a frown, “but how did you know?”

“Merlin is my ward,” Gaius managed to answer.

The boy’s eyes strangely went towards the door to Merlin’s room as he said quietly, “Of course. That makes a kind of sense, I suppose.” Then he returned his attention to Gaius and said somewhat impatiently, “But why are you sitting there? Merlin has need of you.”

“There’s nothing I can do,” Gaius replied faintly. “There’s no cure for such a curse.”

“But there is,” the boy said with certainty in his voice.

“What do you mean?” Gaius asked sharply, not quite believing that there actually might be an answer to all his fruitless questing through parchment and dust.

“Cautery with the weapon that caused the original wound will counter the curse,” the boy replied, “but in this case, any of the Swords of Medhir will suffice.”

“How do you know this?” Gaius asked in disbelief, narrowing his eyes at the boy. At least this explained why he was being summoned to the forge since that was where he assumed the swords were currently located, but being presented with the precise information he so desperately needed seemed entirely too fortuitous to trust without question.

The boy sighed and looked at Gaius with eyes that seemed entirely too old for his face. “Does it matter?” he asked wearily. “Can you not simply trust that what I have told you is true?”

The boy’s expression and the heaviness in his voice gave Gaius pause for the barest of moments. There was something decidedly unusual about him, as if whatever was behind his eyes didn’t quite fit in his body. “I suppose I haven’t any choice,” he replied gruffly as he stood and quickly began gathering supplies, starting with bandages and ointments for burns.

“No,” the boy said, his hand suddenly on Gaius’s arm. “You won’t need any of that. The wound will heal of its own accord. The guard at the citadel gate has been sent to fetch a fresh horse for you. It should be in the courtyard shortly.”

“Very well,” Gaius replied with a sudden surge of annoyance, “but I am a physician and not a sorcerer. I will not go unprepared. He will need something for the pain if nothing else.”

“No,” the boy repeated, more firmly this time, still holding onto Gaius’s arm. “You mustn’t give him any medicines at all. They will only interfere with his healing.”

Gaius glared at him, wanting nothing more than to yank his arm forcefully away. He didn’t like being told how to deal with his patients, certainly not when he was being instructed to leave someone in agony.

The boy finally let go of his arm and said gently, “You may treat him as you deem best after the cautery is done. There will be the original wound to deal with, as well as the blood loss, but all that you should do beforehand is remove the bandages. There must be nothing between him and the steel, nothing in his blood but his own life. That is what is required.”

Gaius hesitated, part of him wanting to argue, but then the boy said with a truly anguished look on his face, “Please, do as I say. This is Merlin’s only chance.”

Gaius’s final doubts and reservations were broken by those plain and simple words. He took a deep breath, quickly setting aside the sharp stabbing of distress he felt. He needed to distance himself from his emotions as best he could and concentrate instead on tending to what needed doing. That was his role to play in this increasingly strange weaving of fate.

He turned his attention to quickly evaluating what was already stocked in his round leather case, supplies useful in most emergencies. He added a few additional bandages, then determined what was there would suffice. He couldn’t possibly prepare himself for eventualities he didn’t even want to contemplate. He closed the case, slung the strap over his shoulder, gave the boy a quick nod, and was out the door and heading down the steps as quickly as his feet would bear him.

*****

Just past the halfway point to the citadel and its outbuildings, Arthur finally had to admit to himself that the slowly increasing bluish tint in Merlin’s fingers was not merely a trick of the light. He would need to loosen the tourniquet, and that would mean more of Merlin’s blood spilled. If it would save his limb, though, it must be done, so Arthur shifted to his knees, the gentle swaying of the cart causing him to temporarily lose his balance before he righted himself. He called up to Jarrith to halt the cart. They were moving quickly enough that even a small hole in the road or a rock underneath the wheels of the cart could cause a jolt that might well prove disastrous for Merlin. At least they didn’t have to go through the lower town since they were approaching from the opposite side of the citadel.

As Jarrith reined the horses in, Arthur glanced at the sun, trying to gauge the amount of time that had passed since they’d departed the location of the pyre. It seemed ages to him, but truly, it couldn’t have been very long at all. Even so, his patience was well frazzled. Although rapid enough for what it was, the pace of the cart was nevertheless maddeningly slow to someone used to riding on horseback. He was also immensely frustrated with their misfortune in being so far from the city when the curse had struck. Why couldn’t it have happened that morning when Merlin was sitting at the table in Gaius’s chambers? Nothing to be done for any of it now, though. He could only follow Darren’s instructions and hope they reached the smithy before any irreparable damage was done to Merlin.

As soon as the cart pulled to a stop, Arthur very gingerly teased the knot out of the strip of fabric holding the winding stick in place. The stick instantly twisted almost a full turn, releasing most of the pressure of its own accord. With Merlin’s wound wrapped in bandages, though, he couldn’t tell for certain if it was bleeding again, so he gently turned the stick a bit more until the band of fabric was decidedly slack and couldn’t possibly be holding anything back.

Merlin stirred a bit at the loosening of the tourniquet and let a sharp exhalation out of his nose, but other than that, there was no sign of change in him until a few moments had passed. Then he turned his head slightly to the side, his brow furrowing and his eyes blinking open. He stared at Arthur for a moment, looking as though he was confused and having difficulty focusing his eyes. “My arm’s tingling,” he finally muttered.

“That’s not surprising,” Arthur replied, then added, “I had to loosen the tourniquet to get some blood flow back into your fingers.”

“Oh,” Merlin said, his gaze flicking briefly down to his arm. “All right, but don’t leave it too long. I’d like it if I could get back to Gaius and still be conscious. I want to see him again... Well, before whatever happens.”

“You’re going to be fine, Merlin,” Arthur said, and tried his best to sound like he believed it.

Merlin hummed noncommittally and closed his eyes again, whether because he was avoiding Arthur and his tenuous faith or because he had grown faint and had no choice, Arthur couldn’t say. He turned his attention to Merlin’s fingers instead. As soon as they had reacquired a more normal color, he tightened the tourniquet again, then sat back down and told Jarrith to go. It was only after they were several minutes down the road that he noticed his hands were trembling. Then he saw that the canvas below Merlin’s arm was soaked with blood that hadn’t been there before. He swallowed and drew what was meant to be a steadying breath but really was nothing of the sort.

*****

When Gaius arrived at the smithy, he found Gwen waiting outside, her face marred with worry and her hands twisting themselves together. A surge of apprehension went through him. There was no sign of anyone having arrived yet, so it must be something else that had her so distraught. Only one possibility presented itself to him. He dismounted from the horse as quickly as possible, paying little heed to the audible pop in his left knee or the resultant blossom of pain. “The swords, Gwen,” he said urgently as he took her by the arms. “Are they...?” He trailed off as she shook her head and stumbled a bit at the weakness that went through him at the news.

Gwen quickly gripped his elbows to steady him, then shuffled him a bit to the side, away from the door to the smithy. “There’s another sword, Gaius,” she said, keeping her voice low and quiet. “The boy who fetched you – he said he could find it. Did he not tell you?”

“No,” Gaius said with a shake of his head, relief foremost among his reactions to this information, but there was also frustration and confusion. He couldn’t imagine how the boy would know the location of the missing sword, the very one that Merlin had claimed Morgause had taken with her. Was he somehow a minion of Morgause and set to betray her? Or as seemed more likely, had Merlin merely been mistaken and the sword was still somewhere in the city? But then how would the boy know where it was, unless he was the one who had taken it?

Then there was the matter of his not bothering to tell Gaius that six of the swords had already been destroyed, unless he hadn’t wanted to cause further upset. But he could have assuaged that by simply saying that he could find the missing sword. Maybe he’d feared it would be too much for Gaius to accept along with the instructions about how to treat the wound. He’d told Gwen about the final sword, though. It was as if he were moving puzzle pieces carefully around a board until they finally snapped into place. But then Gaius recalled that the boy hadn’t know that Merlin was his ward. Apparently despite his uncanny knowledge, even he didn’t know what the picture would be when it came together.

Gaius brought his thoughts to a stop with a force of will. He firmly told himself that he was not doing himself or anyone else any good by losing himself in such contemplations. He pulled away from Gwen and turned to retrieve his case of medical supplies from where he had hung it on the saddle. Such plain and simple remedies – linen and silk, ointments and homely potions – but they were all he had. Any chance beyond that had been left with a young peasant who claimed he knew more than was written in all the books in Gaius’s library and all that had been gleaned throughout his many years as a physician. Gaius would simply have to trust that destiny had not abandoned Merlin and that the boy would somehow find the final Sword of Medhir.

*****

Merlin felt as though he were being pulled under the influence of Morgause’s sleeping spell once again. From time to time, he tried to open his eyes, to maintain some sort of awareness, but again and again he drifted away into dreamless darkness, the pain in his arm becoming muted and distant but still determinedly present. Every now and then something would rouse him. For the most part he wasn’t sure what woke him, whether a jolt of the cart or sunlight shining through a space between the trees lining the road or some unexpected noise that was gone before he was aware enough to recognize it. There was the rather uncomfortable process of having the tourniquet loosened and then tightened again. At some point after that, Arthur shook him and insisted he wake up. Merlin wearily obeyed, smiled vaguely at him, and turned away from the worry he saw there, not having the strength for reassurances. Instead he let his eyes drift upwards to the trees.

He’d always had a fondness for trees and the woods, for the shade and the peace they gave, but they’d never seemed quite so alive as they did to him now. Maybe it was because his own life was ebbing, but he was certain he could feel the trees thrumming with a deep and abundant energy, rising from the earth through trunk and branches and fluttering the leaves with a force profoundly akin to magic.

He was reminded of Darren and the strange sense of magic surrounding him. It was as if his very existence had arisen from the earth and the stone, as if he’d been conjured and not born. Merlin had dismissed the feeling at first as simply the effects of the heat of the pyre and a distracted mind that kept wandering to the sword hidden under his bed, but now he wondered if there was more to it than wild imagination.

It was too much for his tired mind to puzzle out. The additional blood he’d lost during the release of the tourniquet, combined with shock and exhaustion, was taking its toll. He tried to fight the crowding darkness drawing near all around him, but it was stronger even than Morgause’s magic, and the trees faded away.


	8. Cautery

Once again, Gwen found herself outside of the smithy, this time pacing back and forth in growing apprehension, willing Arthur and Merlin to appear, and gnawing more and more of her thumbnail away for every second they did not. Equally troubling was that the peasant boy, whose name Gwen was embarrassed to realize she hadn’t bothered to ask, had yet to return from his search for the missing sword. She supposed she shouldn’t be overly concerned about that yet. Even if he were to find the sword very soon after delivering his message to Gaius, he would have to be cautious about returning to the forge carrying such a weapon. He might well be stopped and questioned by one of the knights if he wasn’t careful, and that would only add to the time before Merlin could be cured.

Gaius had gone inside to make preparations and had asked her to keep a lookout and let him know as soon as she caught sight of either Arthur and Merlin or the boy. Just as she bit a little too hard on the edge of her thumb and the tang of blood touched her tongue, she heard what sounded like the slow and steady plodding of a horse and the rolling of wheels. She lowered her hand and curled her fingers into a fist, then the tension released as she saw a cart arriving between the buildings on the far side of the courtyard. The man holding the reins wasn’t familiar to her, but as she rose onto her tiptoes, she found she could make out the top of a blond head over the edge of the cart. Then Arthur stood and grabbed the back of the driver’s seat for balance as he looked towards the smithy.

“Gwen!” he called out as soon as his eyes fell upon her. “Is Gaius here?”

“Yes,” she replied, raising her voice so that he would hear her over the noise of cart and horse. “He’s waiting inside.”

“Good,” Arthur said with a nod as the cart drew alongside her and stopped. “Did he get the message about the swords? He’d better have. That brat stole my horse.”

Gwen looked past the bluster that was Arthur when faced with uncertainty and saw that he was truly concerned and trying to hide it. “Yes, he got the message,” she said as Arthur leaped over the side of the cart, but before she could tell him anything more about the destruction of the six swords or the search for the remaining sword, he’d brushed past her and into the smithy. She heard him call out to Gaius. Then there were muttered words she couldn’t make out, followed by an unprincely curse that she heard very clearly. She supposed that Arthur now knew the entire situation. She stood there for a moment, long enough to suppress the unseemly laugh that wanted to bubble out of her at the thought of Arthur’s expression and frustration when he’d said that word. Worry quickly supplanted the momentary upwelling of mirth, though, and she very deliberately turned and went to the back of the cart.

She was oddly grateful to see the bottoms of Merlin’s feet first, giving her a moment of delay before she saw any evidence of the curse that had been cast upon him. As she climbed up and into the cart, though, it became clear to her that Merlin was in very dire straits indeed. Her attention went first to his face, so pale and with such dark smudges under his closed eyes that she was reminded of the time he’d been poisoned by the Mortaeus flower. He’d so narrowly escaped death that time. She didn’t like being reminded of it, so she drew her gaze away and was next met with a ruined sleeve, a blood-soaked bandage and his arm bound across his chest. This was obviously what was in need of cautery. She took a deep breath and shook away the memories that tried to crowd into her head of a man screaming and writhing as hot iron seared into the flesh of his leg. If that was what must be done to save Merlin’s life, then it must be.

She went quickly to her knees at his side opposite the injured arm, instinctively feeling it best to leave any tending of the wound to Gaius. There was magic at work here, after all, and she couldn’t deny a bit of her own fear making her hesitant as well. But she also felt the heat of anger that someone would resort to doing such a thing to Merlin. Again she worked to set her feelings aside and was mostly successful. She reached out a tentative hand, then rested it gently on Merlin’s shoulder, feeling a deep-seated tremor then. She pressed down a little more firmly, calling his name as she did. She wanted that quaking to stop. It did not bode well.

Merlin drew in a deep breath through his nose, then turned his face towards her. His eyelids slowly opened as a fit of shivering ran though him and then quickly faded, although she could feel that he was still trembling ever so slightly. It was apparent he was having difficulty focusing as well. It took a moment before a look of recognition passed over his face, but that was immediately followed by an expression of such sadness that she drew back a little in confusion. She couldn’t fathom why her presence would bring him sorrow.

“Gwen,” he said in a faint voice, a flicker of a smile touching his lips as he spoke but then fading just as quickly. “I’m glad you’re here. I need to tell you...”

She gave him a moment to finish his sentence, thinking perhaps he simply needed to catch his breath, but then it became evident to her from the wrinkling of his forehead and the conflicted look in his eyes that for some reason he was struggling with what he wanted to say. “It’s all right, Merlin,” she said gently, patting his shoulder carefully, not wanting to jar him and cause him any further discomfort. “You don’t need to say anything right now. You can tell me later.”

“No,” he said urgently, shaking his head only slightly, but the movement was enough to cause him to hiss in pain. He squeezed his eyes shut and shifted his wounded arm a bit, his breath turning to rapid panting for a moment before it evened out again. Then he opened his eyes and looked at her so intently and with such deep, dark anguish that she nearly flinched away from him. Whatever he felt so horribly pressed to say, though, was lost in the sharpness of Arthur’s voice as he came back out of the smithy, telling someone to hurry. Gwen rose up on her knees, partly to discover what was going on and partly to avoid the look in Merlin’s eyes, and saw that Arthur had Simon and one of the guards in tow.

“You need to be very careful not to touched his injured arm,” Arthur said sternly as he walked over to the cart, but then he turned back to the pair following him and raised a finger. “I am very serious on that point. No contact whatsoever. The wound is cursed and will tear open further if touched. So help me, if he is hurt even one whit more through someone’s carelessness...” He left the consequences unspoken, but it was clear from his tone of voice that they would be beyond unpleasant.

His message and warning delivered, he turned back to the cart and strode to the end, then hesitated as he saw Gwen there, almost as if he’d forgotten her presence. She didn’t really blame him. She knew he must be frazzled with worry, especially after what must have seemed an agonizingly long journey accompanying Merlin back to the smithy.

“I’ll just go and see if Gaius needs anything,” she said quickly, saving him from having to figure out what to say to her. Anyone else and he might be rude and abrupt, but he always tried to be more tactful with her. She doubted he was in the frame of mind for that right now and didn’t want him to have to make the effort.

He nodded, looking grateful as he stood aside to let her pass. She didn’t look back as she headed into the smithy. She knew it was going to hurt Merlin to be moved. It was horrible enough that she would have to see the end of the relocation, not to mention what would come afterwards.

She found Gaius pacing restlessly next to one of the work tables, which had been cleared of everything except what looked to be a roll of burlap at one end. She supposed that was meant to be a pillow for Merlin, made of some of the empty sacks that were used to hold various supplies for the smithy.

“Is there anything I can do, Gaius?” she asked hesitantly, not sure if she should interrupt whatever thoughts might be occupying his mind. She saw that his medicinal case was already open on a nearby stool, but she supposed there might be something else that he would need. “I could fetch some blankets from the barracks if you like.”

“What?” Gaius said distractedly, stopping to look blankly at her for a moment. Then he shook his head and said, “No, that won’t be necessary. It’s quite warm enough as it is. I’d rather you stayed here. He’ll need someone to calm him.”

Gwen nodded as Gaius started to pace again, but that was interrupted by the bustle of men at the door as they bore Merlin into the smithy. The carter was walking backward between Merlin’s legs while supporting him by the knees, and the guard was at Merlin’s head with his hands tucked underneath Merlin’s arms and locked together over his chest. The positioning seemed precarious, but she supposed it was the best they could manage to get through the doorway. Arthur entered directly after them and watched the two men with an eagle eye.

Gwen went quickly to the head of the table so she wouldn’t be in the way but also because it seemed the best position for doing what Gaius had asked of her. When she’d had occasion to help at someone’s sickbed prior to this, she’d been told she had a soothing presence. She knew it was going to be far more difficult to maintain her composure in this situation, but she was going to try her utmost for Merlin’s sake. _Be strong, be strong..._ She made the words into a chant in her head.

With Arthur’s help and under Gaius’s direction, Merlin was quickly and efficiently settled on his side on the table, his injured arm uppermost. He didn’t make a sound during the entire transfer, but his eyes were screwed tightly shut and a fine sheen of sweat had broken out on his forehead. Gwen made sure the roll of burlap was tucked properly underneath his head so that he at least wouldn’t end up with a cramp in his neck. She supposed that was the least of his worries, but there seemed to be little else she could do at the moment.

Arthur dismissed the carter and instructed both guards to wait outside, then pulled Gaius a short distance away from the table. With an undercurrent of impatience in his voice, he said in a heated whisper that Gwen had to strain to hear, “We need to do something, Gaius. We can’t just wait on the off chance that the missing sword is going to miraculously turn up simply because we need it. Even if Merlin was wrong about Morgause having it, I hardly believe some boy is going to be able to find it in short order when my soldiers were searching for hours.”

“We need to be patient and not do anything hasty,” Gaius replied quietly, his expression stern and serious. “If I need to resort to conventional means to attempt to treat the wound, I will do so, but that is a measure of last resort.”

Arthur obviously didn’t like the answer he’d received, but he didn’t say anything further. He crossed his arms firmly over his chest and took over where Gaius had left off pacing, while Gaius himself came over to Merlin’s side and laid a gentle hand on his ward’s forehead. Merlin’s eyes fluttered open, but then there was a commotion from outside, followed by the peasant boy entering the smithy with a sword in his hand. He marched determinedly and without pause over to the forge and thrust the weapon decisively into the glowing coals.

A feeling of relief and elation swept through Gwen, but then her attention was briefly brought back to Merlin as he raised his head a bit and muttered in a horrified voice, “No.” She stroked his forehead and made a shushing noise, and he rested his head on the burlap once more. The thought crossed her mind that it was an odd reaction to his salvation arriving. She supposed he might be worried about what must be done to heal him, but she couldn’t help but feeling there was something more to it. Perhaps it was simply a matter of delirium settling in and he wasn’t quite sure what he was saying or why. Judging by the bandage, it looked as though he’d lost a fair amount of blood, and his skin felt unusually warm under her hand.

“The metal should be sufficiently heated fairly quickly,” the boy said. “You’d best prepare Merlin.” His comments were directed at Gaius, but Arthur quickly strode forward and placed himself between the boy and everyone else in the room.

“Where did you get that sword?” Arthur asked, a dangerous edge to his voice. “Did you have it all along?”

Gwen wanted to shout at Arthur to leave the boy alone and allow Gaius to tend to Merlin before any interrogations, but she knew that would do little good. Arthur would have his answers. She hoped the boy provided them quickly. Gaius, however, seemed to be ignoring the proceedings in favor of more practical matters, turning his attention to very gingerly untying the knot securing the bandage on Merlin’s arm.

“No. I merely borrowed it from the one who had it,” the boy answered, his chin lifting a bit and his voice tinged with defiance. “I’ll have to return it once you’re done with it.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes at the boy and said, “You’re in league with Morgause, aren’t you?”

A strangely sad look came over the boy’s face then, and he lowered his head to look at the ground. “I’m ashamed to say I was,” he said quietly, “but no longer.”

Gwen gasped at the admission, but her shock was quickly overshadowed by Arthur sharply calling out to the guards. As the two men hastily reentered the smithy, she heard Gaius saying, “Gwen, I could use your assistance with this.” She turned and saw that was cradling Merlin’s lower arm in his hands. “I need you to hold his arm up so I can unwind the bandage.”

“Of course,” she said as she went to Gaius’s side. She vaguely heard Arthur ordering the guards to hold the boy over in the corner of the room until he could be dealt with. A stray part of her felt sorrow and sympathy for what he was sure to be subjected to after this was over, but Merlin was her chief concern now. She kept her attention on him, carefully supporting his arm at wrist and elbow so Gaius could do his work. Merlin’s face scrunched up at the handling, and he turned his face down into the burlap sacking with a long, low moan.

“I’m sorry, my boy,” Gaius said as unwrapped the blood-soaked linen. “I’m trying to be as gentle as I can.”

After a handful of tense moments, the last bit of linen finally came free, and Gaius deposited the sodden mess on the table behind Merlin. Gwen stood transfixed, stunned at the damage to Merlin’s arm. The injury was no longer a scratch or even a minor cut as she’d been told, but a full-fledged and hideous gash, the edges parted enough that she could have stuck her finger right into the wound and might have gone as deep as bone. There were some sort of black, bristly things along both sides of the wound, and it took Gwen a moment to realize they were the remains of stitches, looking as if they’d been slashed clean through but otherwise left in place.

She swallowed against the nausea rising at the back of her throat and looked away for a moment to compose herself, but then Gaius directed her to place Merlin’s arm back along his side, so she had no choice but to look again. Her eyes skittered across and above the wound and noticed that there was a band of fabric tied tightly around his arm above the injury. It took her a moment to identify it as a tourniquet. She’d been so distracted by the bandage and then the wound itself that she hadn’t noticed it before. Uncomfortable memories stirred. The man whose wound her father had cauterized had also had such a thing holding back the blood or surely he would have bled to death before he was brought to the smithy. She felt a pang deep in her stomach at the thought that Merlin might have already been dead if not for that scrap of cloth.

After she settled Merlin’s arm against his side, she patted his hand in what she hoped was a reassuring gesture. She wondered if he even felt it. His arm must be on fire with pain. Or perhaps it was numb due to the restriction of the tourniquet. He hadn’t made any further sounds of discomfort as she’d moved his arm. As she looked at his face again, she saw that his eyes were closed and his features seemed to have relaxed somewhat, so it was entirely possible he’d lost consciousness. That might be for the best.

Merlin apparently hadn’t completely let go of awareness, though, because when Gaius called his name a moment later, he mumbled something she couldn’t quite make out, although she thought it might be something about a dragon. That obviously made no sense since dragons didn’t exist any longer, so maybe she’d misheard or he truly was lost in fever now. After only a scattering of words, though, his muttering abruptly stopped, and he blinked bleary eyes open once more. Gaius gave him a gentle smile that Gwen supposed was meant to be reassuring. It was a valiant effort, but she could see the beginnings of tears in Gaius’s eyes.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” Gaius said and turned to walk over to the forge. Arthur took the opportunity to move to Merlin’s side, leaning down to look directly at him.

“Are you still awake?” Arthur asked, and Gwen could’ve sworn there was hesitation and perhaps fear unpinning the simple question.

Merlin nodded slightly, then said in a voice that was barely more than a whisper, “I wish I wasn’t. This is going to hurt like hell, isn’t it?”

“That’s probably a good assumption,” Arthur said slowly, then he added, “One bit of advice. I know you might be tempted to be manly and not yell, but that really doesn’t suit you, and besides, I’ve been told it helps to let out a really good scream.”

Merlin let out a soft breath and smiled a bit before he replied, “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You’re going to make it through this, Merlin,” Arthur said firmly as he stood back up.

“Is that another order, Sire?” Merlin asked as he turned his head slightly to look up at him.

“Yes, it is. And I expect you to obey it.”

“I’ll do my best,” Merlin said, but then his faint smile faltered as his eyes drifted over towards the other side of the room. He frowned and pressed his lips together.

Gwen turned to find out what he was looking at and saw that Gaius was examining the blade that Simon had pulled partially from the coals of the forge. The steel was already glowing. Not surprising considering the heat that still lingered from the work of unmaking the other swords. The armory forge was well insulated with heavy brick and would take some time to cool down.

“I’ll do it,” Arthur said decisively as he walked across to Gaius and gave Simon a nod. The blacksmith bowed his head deferentially, returned the blade to the coals, then removed his thick leather gloves and handed them to the prince. “Not that I really want to,” Arthur said to Gaius as he pulled the gloves onto his hands, “but if someone must, it should be me. I daresay I have the greatest skill with a sword of anyone here.”

“Thank you, Sire,” Gaius said as he reached over and squeezed Arthur’s arm in gratitude. “I know your aim will be true.” He dropped his hand as he added, “Leave the sword in the forge just a moment longer. I’ll let you know when we’re ready. Simon, if you would?” Gaius gestured towards Merlin, and both men walked over to the table.

Gwen wasn’t quite sure what Simon was needed for, but then Gaius instructed him to hold Merlin’s legs. Gaius himself took Merlin’s lower arm in a firm grasp with both hands and tugged a bit to pull the limb straight. Then he looked towards Gwen, but before he could say anything to her, she spread the fingers of one hand across the back of Merlin’s head and laid the other hand across his eyes. She knew it would be best if he didn’t look, and he didn’t object. She felt the brush of his eyelashes against her palm as he closed his eyes, but she kept her hand where it was, pressing gently from either side to keep his head still.

His breathing had sped up gradually as he was held in place bit by bit, but now his lips parted to let out ragged gasps. His upper body twitched a bit, prompting Gaius to reach one of his hands over Merlin to press against his back. Merlin stilled, although his labored breaths were barely under control now. They needed to hurry or surely Merlin would lose all composure. Anyone would if made to wait too long in anticipation of such a thing.

Gaius gave Arthur a nod, and as he withdrew the blade from the forge, Merlin said in a surprisingly clear voice, “I’m sorry, Gwen. Truly, I am.”

She frowned in confusion, then leaned down to speak quietly near his ear, feeling that this was a private matter, although she had no idea what he was referring to. “You have nothing to apologize for, Merlin.”

“No, but I do,” he said with a gasp, but his voice was insistent through his breathlessness. “It’s my fault.”

Then Arthur was there, the glowing sword held carefully aloft, both hands grasping the hilt. Merlin needed to be very still now if they were to preserve him from any more extensive burns than need be. She gently rubbed her thumb across his temple and said the only thing she could think of. “Then I forgive you.” And she meant it, even without knowing what needed forgiveness. She couldn’t imagine Merlin intentionally doing anything that would be beyond absolution.

She thought she felt a bit of wetness against the fingers she had laid over his eyes, but she had no time to wonder at it because Arthur was lowering the sword towards its target. She turned her head away. There was a sizzling sound and the sickening scent of scorched flesh, then thrashing that nearly shook her grip from Merlin's head and must have tested Simon's strength judging by the hollow knocking sounds and vibrations through the table. A ragged scream tore itself from Merlin's throat, a shredded sound of agony, followed by a long gasp filled with a horrible, high-pitched moan. Her heart nearly broke at the sound.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, there was another noise, a shout from Arthur followed by the sound of splitting wood. Her eyes flew open and she saw that the sword was no longer in Arthur’s hands. She turned to see what he was staring at. Somehow the weapon had flown across the room and imbedded itself in one of the timbers that supported the roof of the smithy. The blade was swaying slightly back and forth, reflected light from the forge flashing dully from the hilt, and smoke was rising from the wood. Simon was quickly there with a bucket of water, dousing the heated metal and bringing forth a hissing cloud of steam.

“ _What_ ,” Arthur said with a catch in his voice, “was that?”

“It must have been some byproduct of the curse being broken, Sire,” Gaius said evenly. “The force of the magic being expelled must have cast the sword aside.”

Arthur stared for a moment longer before shaking his head and turning back towards Merlin. “Is it broken, then?” he asked hesitantly. “The curse?”

As Gaius leaned over Merlin’s arm to inspect the injury, Gwen realized she was nervously carding her fingers through Merlin’s hair. At some point, she’d taken her hand away from his eyes, although she couldn’t remember doing it. She tilted her head and looked down at his face. His eyes were closed and his breathing seemed to be evening out. There was a laxness to his mouth and eyelids that seemed to indicate he’d finally lost consciousness. She sighed softly in relief, then looked towards Gaius to see what his verdict was to be.

“It seems so,” Gaius said with palpable relief in his voice. “The burn is nearly gone and the wound is mending itself.”

Gwen finally brought herself to look at Merlin's arm and saw not the horrible aftermath of cautery as she had been expecting, but only reddened and slightly blistered skin that was smoothing out and drawing together along the edges of the wound. Then she realized she could no longer even smell burnt flesh, as if there had never been hot metal laid to flesh. After a matter of moments, the injury was little more than a long and shallow slice down the length of Merlin's upper arm, although the blood that had spilled stubbornly remained where it was, smeared on his skin and soaking his sleeve.

“It’s gone back to what it was before the curse, apart from the blood,” Gaius announced, shifting his head to look from all angles and apparently not finding anything to contradict that assumption.

“Touch it,” Arthur suddenly said.

“What?” Gaius asked, looking at Arthur in confusion.

“Touch the wound. We won’t know for certain that the curse is completely lifted until we know the wound won’t open again.”

Gaius turned back to Merlin and stared at the injured arm for several moments before he finally reached out and placed a tentative finger against the middle of the wound. Nothing happened. Gaius pulled his hand away and heaved a deep and shaking sigh of relief. “It’s over,” he muttered. “He’s safe.” He gripped Merlin’s hand firmly in his own and closed his eyes, a single tear leaking out to trail down his weathered cheek.

Then there was a sudden, strange noise, what sounded like bodies hitting the ground. Gwen flinched and quickly looked towards the guards. They were lying on the floor, along with Simon, and neither the boy nor the sword were anywhere to be seen. Gaius went over and knelt next to the fallen men, quickly ascertaining that they were merely unconscious and apparently not harmed in any other way.

There was a long moment of silence, then Gwen spoke quietly, recalling the boy’s earlier words. “He said he had to return the sword.”

Arthur looked at her, his face lined with tension. He nodded, then said, “So the sword has gone back to Morgause. I suppose Darren was still in league with her after all.”

Gwen felt a frown forming on her face. At least she finally knew the boy’s name, but that did little to aid her understanding of who or what he truly was. “If he was serving Morgause all along,” she asked slowly, “why did he help Merlin?”

Arthur looked at her with a befuddled expression. His mouth opened for a moment, then he shut it, apparently having no idea how to answer her. Fortunately, Gaius quickly stepped in with a reply before the pause became uncomfortable.

“That, my dear, is a puzzle whose solution may well have disappeared with the boy himself. We may never know, but we can be grateful.” He nodded towards Merlin, a gentle smile on his face.

Gwen looked down to where her hand was now resting quietly on the side of Merlin’s head. There was a still an unsettling pallor to his skin and the discoloration under his eyes persisted. And he was so very still. She was once again reminded of the time he’d drunk poison and had nearly died. He _had_ died, but had stubbornly refused to stay dead. She was absurdly worried that he still might slip away and not come back this time.

Gaius seemed to sense her unease because he came to her and laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “He’ll be fine now, Gwen. He’ll likely still feel the effects of the blood loss, but a bit of time and rest will amend that easily enough.”

She nodded and absently brushed tears away from her eyes as she squared her shoulders. She needed to focus on what she could do to be of help and not dwell on what could have happened had fate twisted another way. She would start by helping however she might to see Merlin settled back into his room. Then there was even more washing and mending to do. This shirt would need a good deal of soaking and scrubbing to get the blood out, and the sleeve would need quite a bit of careful stitching. She thought it would turn out all right, and if not, she would make him an entirely new shirt. At least it would give her something to do. She refused to think any further than that other than to hope that Morgana would quickly be returned to them again. At least Merlin was still here to help gentle them all along the way.


	9. Explanations

Merlin woke to sunlight and birdsong, muzzily thinking there should be trees above him and a gently swaying cart below, but there was only the ceiling of his room, his own bed, and a thrush on the windowsill singing him awake. He lay there blinking in temporary confusion, then he remembered pain – sharp and sudden at the pyre, low and deeply aching on the way back to the city, bright and piercing when Gwen said she’d forgiven him, and then something so horrid that it hadn’t even hurt at all for a moment. Only a heartbeat, and then he’d lost all sense in the searing pain and smell of burnt flesh.

He remembered a scream clawing its way out of his throat. Had there been a rush of magic as well? His own magic, hot and surging through the ice-cold rush of the curse being driven from him. He’d used magic to force something away from him. The sword? It must have been. He abruptly sat up in panic, then had to hunch over his knees as dizziness and nausea and a sudden pounding in his head nearly overwhelmed him. He needed that sword, needed to know where it was.

“Gaius!” he croaked out, his left hand going to press against his forehead, while the other reached across to grip his arm at the resultant twinge of pain. There was a bandage there. And his shirt was missing. His memories swirled and shifted. This was familiar. The day after Morgause’s failed attempt to conquer Camelot. A scrabbling bit of desperation begged for him to believe that everything since had been only a nightmare, but that was a fleeting wish. He knew well and good that it had all happened.

“Gaius!” he called again, somewhat more clearly this time, but with his voice still catching at the dryness in his throat. Surely if he’d performed magic in front of all those people, they would’ve noticed. So why was he here and not in the dungeons? Was Darren there instead, taking the blame for sorcery and the stolen sword? And why was Gaius not bloody _answering_ him? Merlin could hear the grating sound of mortar and pestle, so he must be in the outer chamber. Maybe he couldn’t hear a rasping voice through a closed door and over the sound of grinding herbs.

Merlin had to know _now_ what had happened in the time since he’d lost consciousness at the smithy. He didn’t want to wait on Gaius to hear his calls, so he didn’t bother trying again. He pushed the blanket down – no, it was two blankets, his own and an extra – and swung his legs to the side of the bed. The movement only made his head hurt more, so he kept his hand pressed firmly to his forehead while he used the other to try and provide leverage to push up and away from the bed. His legs apparently had no intention of holding him, though, and he tumbled to the floor, landing on his front with his face turned towards his bed.

He lay there panting, vaguely hearing hurried footsteps coming towards his room, but for a moment, his concerns and questions narrowed to the presence of a bundle of fabric under his bed. He slowly reached out his right hand, fortunately the uninjured side, then shaking fingers traced the shape of what had to be a sword hilt and the flat of a blade. He had no idea how the weapon had come to be there again when he was certain the sword that had saved him was the very one he had hidden away. It could have been no other. Darren must’ve found it, but how had he known where to look, and how had he managed to return it? And how had a seemingly simple peasant boy known how to break such a terrible curse? Too many questions, too much confusion. He was so tired, and weak and trembling. A shiver wove its way across his shoulders, and he squeezed his eyes shut. He probably should have stayed in bed.

There was the sound of his door opening and an exclamation of “Merlin!” Gaius sounded worried. Of course he would be, finding his ward in a heap on the floor. Merlin felt a twinge of guilt at that and wearily pulled his arm out from under the bed and then underneath his chest to try and lever himself up. Then there were warm, callused hands on his shoulders, the touch oddly soothing on his bare skin. It was familiar and safe. Straightforward. No questions attached.

“Let’s get you back into bed,” Gaius said with a touch of exasperation in his voice amidst the obvious concern. His hands moved to Merlin’s sides and tugged insistently, and Merlin couldn’t help but groan at the thought of the effort that would be needed to get up off the floor. A bed and warm blankets were far preferable to bare stone, though, so he managed to push himself up onto his knees with Gaius’s help and then crawl awkwardly into his bed. He tried to settle on his front side because that was easiest, but Gaius insisted that he turn and sit up with his back propped against the wall.

“This is making my head hurt, Gaius,” he said plaintively, but reluctantly did as he was instructed. At least Gaius put the pillow behind his back and pulled the blankets back up over his legs and chest, leaving his arms on top. His wound was aching fiercely now from the fall to the floor and the struggle to get back into bed.

“I know, Merlin, and I’m sorry,” Gaius replied as he turned to pour a cup of water from the pitcher on Merlin’s desk, “but you need to drink. You lost a fair bit of blood. That’s why you have a headache. Dizzy as well, I suspect?”

Merlin took the proffered cup and carefully nodded before taking a sip. The water was lukewarm, but it nevertheless felt marvelously refreshing to his dry mouth and parched throat. While he drank, Gaius pulled the desk chair over to the side of the bed and settled himself in it, leaning forwards with his elbows propped on his knees.

"You're lucky to be alive, my boy," Gaius said softly, the sincerity in his voice so deep that Merlin couldn't help but smile a little, although it was fleeting, turning into a frown as he considered which of his many questions he should ask first. Gaius saved him the trouble of deciding by going on to say, "You needn't even worry about your outburst of magic in the smithy. You flung the sword clear across the room, I expect in instinctive reaction to the pain, but I explained it away easily enough by saying it was simply a side effect of the curse being undone. No one seemed to doubt my explanation."

Merlin blinked at him a few times before he said, “You’re a disturbingly good liar, Gaius.” Then he cringed inwardly a bit because he himself was doing an admirable job of hiding things from Gaius. The heavy presence of the sword under his bed was ample evidence of that.

"I've had a good deal of practice," Gaius replied with a shrug. He didn't elaborate, not that Merlin expected him to, but instead sat up and leaned against the back of the chair, crossing his arms over his chest. Merlin felt sure some sort of accusation or admonition was coming, that perhaps Gaius suspected who had taken the sword in the first place, but he simply peered at his ward with an inscrutable expression for a moment before he said, "It seems you had a rather unlikely guardian."

Merlin frowned for a moment before it came clear to him who Gaius was referring to. “Darren,” he said, and Gaius nodded confirmation. There were so many unanswered questions about the boy, but the foremost thought in Merlin’s mind was for his safety. “Did Arthur throw him into the dungeon?”

“He didn’t have the chance,” Gaius said matter-of-factly. “Darren disappeared and took the sword with him.”

Merlin steadfastly averted his thoughts from the fact that Darren had only taken the sword to return it to the place he’d found it. “Disappeared?” Merlin asked. “You mean he escaped?”

“No,” Gaius replied. “I mean he disappeared, right out of the smithy. I expect he used magic.”

“Ah,” Merlin said with a nod, relieved for Darren’s sake. “That explains a good deal. I thought I sensed something strange about him.”

“More strange than you can imagine,” Gaius replied evenly. “I finally got a chance to read a history of the Knights of Medhir that Geoffrey found for me. The part I found of particular interest was the account of the first knight to fall under Harrowen’s spell. He was known as the Knight of Despair because he loved Harrowen, and she used that love to ensnare him. But his true name, the name he bore when he first arrived in Camelot a lowly and destitute peasant boy, was Darren.”

An icy chill ran down Merlin’s back and raised gooseflesh on his arms. “You think Darren was...” He shook his head. “What, exactly?”

“Some kind of shade. A spirit embodied in the shape of his youth. It was said that Harrowen felt pity for Darren’s love for her, and granted him the boon of one final chance to redeem himself before his existence was ended forever. I think he did that in saving you.”

Merlin had no idea what to say to that. The thought that a dead man had returned to life solely for the purpose of keeping him alive was difficult to accept, but he couldn’t deny that it all seemed to fit together. It was a bit overwhelming and entirely humbling.

There was a long moment of silence before Gaius shifted the mood towards practicality, something he did so very well. “Finish that water,” he said, gesturing at the cup in Merlin’s hand. Merlin absently downed the remainder, still lost in thought about the strangeness of the situation. Gaius got up and took the cup, refilled it and handed it back.

As Merlin obediently drained the cup again – he truly was extraordinarily thirsty – Gaius added, “I’ll make you some soup later. And a tonic should help to strengthen you as well. But for now, drink up, and then more rest. You slept soundly the night through, but Arthur has excused you from your duties today and tomorrow. It should be enough time for you to recover reasonably well, as long as you don’t overly exert yourself. The wound will take a bit longer to heal completely, but it’s only a minor concern now.”

Merlin nodded and handed the now empty cup back to Gaius. He lay down and pulled the blankets up to his chin, then drifted to sleep so quickly he only vaguely heard Gaius leave the room. He dreamed of smoke rising from a pyre and a boy’s face filled with the wisdom and pain of years. Then the boy smiled and tears spilled down his cheeks as he closed his eyes and turned his face to the setting sun. There was a sense of freedom and rushing wind, and then the evening fell, peaceful with stars and moonlight and the rustling of leaves in a gentle breeze.

*****

It took until the evening of the following day for Merlin to feel truly rested. He spent the time in between mostly in his bed, alternating between dozing and heavily sleeping, interspersed with Gaius bringing him soups and horrid tonics that made him want to crawl under the bed to escape the aftertaste. But the sword was there, and that would be no respite at all.

It was the smell of cooking that woke him in the fading light of approaching sunset, a rich stew this time, and his stomach rumbled in anticipation. He rose and went to dress himself, but was momentarily confused by the fact that none of his clothing was visible, either on the washing line, the floor, or the pegs on the back of the door. He was beginning to think he would have to ask Gaius where his clothes had gone when it occurred to him to check in the small cupboard across from his bed. Inside he found his shirts and jackets, washed and neatly mended, as well as his trousers, socks and assorted neckerchiefs, all clean and freshly folded in stacks. His belt was coiled and laid atop the trousers, and his boots had been well brushed and were sitting on the floor by the cupboard.

He felt a bit of warmth flush his cheeks when he considered that it must’ve been Guinevere who had done all of it. The thought of her tending to his clothing was somewhat embarrassing. Only he or his mother had ever done so, but he remembered what Gaius had said before about Gwen needing something to do to distract herself from Morgana’s absence. He decided he’d accept the kindness this once, but he wasn’t about to have Gwen acting as if she were his servant. Apart from being entirely inappropriate, there were certainly far more important things she could be doing with her time apart from washing and mending his clothing. What those things were, he wasn’t entirely certain since he had little to do with the functioning of the castle apart from duties that touched on Arthur’s convenience and well-being. Gwen was resilient and adaptable, though, and he was sure she would make her way, but he felt piercingly sad and guilty that she would have to do so. Maybe it wouldn’t be for very long and Morgana would be quickly returned to them, but deep in his heart, he knew it wasn’t likely to be so.

He dressed himself slowly, taking care to force those thoughts and feelings away from him. It would do him no good to dwell on them, or so he tried to tell himself. He needed to return to some sense of normalcy now. He’d recovered well enough from the blood loss he’d suffered,  and the wound on his arm barely pained him at all now. Gaius wanted to keep the stitches in and the bandages on for a while longer. Merlin thought that was being overcautious, but considering what they’d been through over the past week or so, he was more than willing to humor his mentor.

As he walked down the stairs, Gaius glanced over at him from where he was stirring the cooking pot. He gave Merlin a nod and ladled the stew into two bowls, which he took to the table. They both sat, Gaius handed Merlin a spoon, and they began to eat in silence.

After a few moments, Gaius paused to take a drink of water, then set his cup down and said, “I repaired your spell book. Just a crack in the binding, easily fixed. I’ve got it hidden away in one of the cupboards. You can put it back in your room later. Somewhere safe, please. Not on the bed or the floor. It’s a wonder Arthur didn’t notice it when it was laying out here.”

“Well, he’s not much of one for books,” Merlin replied absently between mouthfuls of stew. “He probably wouldn’t know a magic book if it walked up to him and introduced itself.”

Gaius huffed a small laugh, then said, “Best not to test him on that. He was distracted at the time. You might not be so lucky again.”

“I know,” Merlin replied, then set his spoon down at the recollection of how easily Arthur had seemed to accept his lies about Morgana’s disappearance. He dearly wished he hadn’t needed to lie at all, that he’d found some other way to avert disaster. Instead, he’d only invited a different kind of grief, his own and that of others who cared for Morgana, and no one other than Morgause knew the truth of what he’d done.

He looked down as an image came unbidden into his mind – Morgana’s shocked and horrified face, her eyes filled with an expression of uncomprehending betrayal. He wasn’t even sure she’d known why he’d poisoned her. She probably hadn’t even been aware she was being used to maintain the spell. He’d looked for deception in her, over and over again, not wanting to accept what the dragon had implied, that she was conspiring to bring about Camelot’s downfall. All he’d seen was a bewildered and frightened young woman, not the vengeful witch the dragon seemed to think she was or would yet become. She’d been Morgause’s victim before she’d been his.

“Merlin?” Gaius said gently. The sound of his voice pulled Merlin away from the memory but not from the guilt. That would likely never go away completely, and it was particularly difficult to bear at the moment.

“I poisoned Morgana,” he said abruptly, giving in to sudden impulse. He kept his eyes fixed on the table as he spoke, but when there was no response, he had to look up.

Gaius had his head tilted to the side and he was frowning, but then he nodded slightly and said, “The hemlock. I noticed it was missing.”

“I had to,” Merlin blurted out, needing desperately to explain because he wouldn’t be able to bear it if not even Gaius could understand the horrible necessity. “She was the source of the sleeping spell. Morgause was using her. I didn’t want to do it, Gaius. I didn’t – ” His voice caught in his throat and he swallowed back a sob.

“I know, Merlin,” Gaius said softly as he reached over and laid his hand over Merlin’s. He must have sensed his ward’s need to unburden himself because he went on to say, “Why don’t you tell me what happened.”

Merlin clutched desperately at the opportunity. It all came spilling out, everything from when he and Arthur had returned from Idirsholas until the spell was broken. All but the bargain he’d struck with the dragon. He still shied away from that, and the deliberate omission sat heavily and nauseatingly in his stomach. He needed to tell Gaius, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do so just yet.

Gaius listened intently the entire time, a serious but otherwise unreadable expression on his face. When Merlin was done, he looked away. Merlin wasn’t sure what to make of that. He’d thought that surely Gaius would understand. Maybe he’d been wrong.

In the awkward silence that followed, Merlin picked his spoon back up and began to stab desultorily at his stew. He felt strangely empty, cold and hollow inside, as if confessing his actions had left him somehow bereft. He knew he wouldn’t be able to bear it if Gaius found fault with what he’d done. He couldn’t even bring himself to look at his mentor, who still remained silent.

Thankfully, Gaius didn’t take much longer to consider his response. “You did the right thing,” he said quietly.

Merlin’s gaze flicked immediately back to Gaius, whose expression was still oddly stern. It seemed at odds with the compassion of his words. Merlin shook his head slightly and said, “You don’t mean that. Morgana was your friend, too. You cared about her.” There were so many people who’d been harmed in the aftermath of what he’d done. He found he couldn’t continue to meet Gaius’s steady gaze.

“I did,” Gaius replied. “But I fear that unlike you, Morgana chose not to use her gift for good.”

Merlin pressed his lips firmly together. He’d been trying so hard in his mind to absolve Morgana of complicity in Morgause’s plan, but Gaius’s words forced him to admit that it was likely Morgana had somehow taken part in the plot, even if she hadn’t been aware of the spell that Morgause had cast upon her.

“You had no choice,” Gaius went on, but much as Merlin wanted to have that confirmation and absolution, his first instinct was to resist, to shake his head. He opened his mouth to speak, but lost the thought and words. He so wanted to be forgiven by someone who knew the truth and was not simply speaking out of kindness as Gwen had done.

“Would we be sitting here now,” Gaius said a bit more firmly and insistently than he had been speaking, and Merlin couldn’t help but respond by looking him in the eye, “if you had not made that decision?”

Merlin couldn’t argue with the logic of that. So many others would have been lost if he hadn’t taken the actions he had, but it still hurt. He didn’t want to entirely accept that he had no other choice, no matter that he’d said it himself, thought it over and over, and heard Gaius repeat it. It would take him a while longer to believe. Maybe he never would, not completely, but he knew that he needed to move forward, that no good would come of wallowing in regret. There was work still to be done, and he knew what he had to do next. There was no sense in putting it off any longer. He gave a slight but resolute nod and rose from the table.

“Where are you going?” Gaius asked, obviously confused by the abrupt change in his ward.

Merlin almost told Gaius, but dithered once again. Gaius had lifted a bit of the burden of guilt from his shoulders. Would it be fair to ask him to bear more, to have foreknowledge of his ward’s actions and thus some responsibility for them?  “I’ll eat that later,” he said, putting the decision off yet again.

“Merlin,” Gaius said, the word a question, concern and maybe a hint of warning all at the same time.

Part of Merlin was screaming for him to confess the bargain he’d made with the dragon, but all that came out of his mouth was, “There’s something I have to do.”

He turned swiftly and headed towards his room before Gaius could question him further. Once there, he closed the door, went to the bed and knelt to withdraw the sword from its hiding place. He looked up and down its wrapped length, and then, with the weight of the blade in his hands and the consequences of using it so real in a way they had not been before, he knew that he had to tell Gaius. He couldn’t make this decision alone.

He opened the door and slowly went back down into the main chamber, carrying the sword tucked beneath his arm. Gaius watched his approach with a wary expression on his face, one that clouded a bit more when Merlin laid the bundle on the table.

“What’s this?” Gaius asked, obviously perplexed.

“The sword,” Merlin replied. When Gaius merely raised an eyebrow at him, he clarified, “The missing sword.” When Gaius still didn’t say anything or even raise or lower his eyebrow in the slightest, Merlin hesitated a moment, but then the entire truth came tumbling out. “I was the one who took it when the knights fell. I hid it under my bed. Darren must’ve found it and taken it from there, then returned it afterwards.”

There was a long pause before Gaius’s eyebrows evened and drew together. Then he said with an unexpected measure of annoyance and a trace of anger in his voice, “You should have told me.”

“I know,” Merlin replied sheepishly.

Gaius went on as if Merlin hadn't spoken. "I was beside myself with worry when I found out that six of the swords that could save you were melted to nothing and the seventh nowhere to be found. If you had only told me..."

Merlin didn’t know quite what to say in response. All he could think of was, “I’m sorry.”

Gaius fixed him with a penetrating stare that Merlin had to force himself to meet. Gaius’s next question was completely unexpected, though. “Would you have even told me if Darren hadn’t found the sword and brought it to the smithy?”

“I don’t know,” Merlin admitted slowly. In recollection, he realized his frame of mind hadn’t been sound enough to think beyond the need to keep the sword hidden and in his possession. “I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly.”

“Merlin, why would you risk your life for such a thing?” Gaius asked. There was something odd in his voice. If pressed to name it, Merlin would have called it desperation or anguish. “You would have died without that sword.”

Merlin sighed and sat down at the table. It was beyond time to lay the last bit of the truth before Gaius, although he couldn’t bring himself to look his mentor in the eye while he did so. “I made a promise to the dragon, on my mother’s life, that I would set him free. It was the only way he would tell me how to defeat the Knights.”

“Oh, Merlin,” Gaius sighed, but his tone was sad and not disapproving.

“I had to,” Merlin said, his gaze flicking up briefly to see the weary and sorrowful expression on Gaius’s face. “I had to,” he repeated as he looked down again.

“I know,” Gaius replied. “My dear boy.”

Merlin felt tears begin to sting his eyes at the obvious sympathy and caring in Gaius’s voice. He blinked rapidly and bit his lower lip as he drew a deep breath through his nose and gusted it out again. He didn’t want pity, or any more understanding or forgiveness. He only wanted this over and done.

He laid his hand on the wrapped blade and paused for a moment before he said, “The dragon told me I would need one of these swords to break the chain that keeps him imprisoned in the cave, but...” He trailed off, his fingers worrying a bit of the blanket. “What do you think he’ll do when I set him free? Do you think he’ll try to take his revenge?”

“It has been said,” Gaius said slowly and carefully, “that the Greater Dragons were never prone to unbridled destruction, nor were they wanton killers. There was always a purpose to their actions, even if it was not readily apparent at the time. But I could not begin to know the mind of a dragon, especially one who has been held in captivity for so long.”

Merlin nodded, then sat in pained silence for a moment. In the end, this all came down to a promise he’d made to the dragon, and he had never been one to take such things lightly. Perhaps because he so often had to lie and hide the truth, when he did make a heartfelt vow, he did everything in his power to hold to his word. Now was the time to fulfill his promise. He had no further excuses to make. He had the means within his hands. If he hesitated, judged the dragon by what he might do, he would be no better than Uther in his persecution of magic users solely for their potential to do harm.

Decision made, he was left with wondering exactly how this would work. “Do you think I’ll need a spell of some kind?” he asked as he looked up and tilted his head to the side.

“I cannot imagine what sort of spell would break such chains, Merlin,” Gaius replied. “But your magic is not like any other. I think if your heart and mind is set to do a thing, you will find the words.”

Gaius’s statement was a bit overwhelming for Merlin and he didn’t truly believe it, not until a short while later, when he stood and considered the massive chain tethering the dragon. He was about to ask what must be done to breach the metal when he felt a sort of humming in the sword in his hand. It was like a voice, a plaintive song, begging to be commanded. So he spoke, bid the sword to sever the chains, and with a mighty blow of heat and magic, it was done.

The dragon’s roar was a raw and elemental thing that thrummed in Merlin’s bones and made the magic in his blood surge. He watched the beast taking flight, powerful wings bearing him upwards from the depths and towards a freedom denied him for so long. It was a terrifying and beautiful thing to behold, and Merlin stood enraptured until the dragon disappeared from sight.

When he looked down again and lifted the blade in front of his eyes, the sword was silent in his hand, quiescent, as if it were satisfied with its work and had gone to its rest. Merlin laid it down upon the ground and left it there. When the sword was later found, it was given to the forge, where it subsided into nothing like its brothers had done before. And thus were ended the Swords of Medhir.

*****

The End


End file.
